23 #2
“You’re just jealous that I can work through my pain, unlike you,” he snapped. “You’re the reason this marriage has failed.”
“How dare you,” I whispered, the tears building in my throat. “I can’t believe I thought this was going to be any different.”
His shoulders wilted under my hand as he registered my emotion. Yet all he had to say was: “I love you, Luna.”
Far, in the back caverns of my heart, there was an earsplitting crack.
He loved me? He loved me?
I stared at him in disbelief. At this person who was my idol before he was my husband. How childish it felt to hold that thought so close for so many months like a worn-out teddy bear. It made my stomach roll to hear him say those words.
For months, every night before I fell asleep, I wondered if he regretted what he did when he looked at the space I left in our bed.
Were my coffee mugs in our cabinets off limits? Did he still order our shared dishes from the Italian restaurant down the street? Did he miss the smell of my perfume on our pillow or the feeling of our chests colliding as we fell asleep or the weight of my gaze when I watched him across the court?
I was still getting used to sleeping in the middle of the bed. Sharing a space for one.
I couldn’t bring myself to imagine any of it, because every time I played back a happy memory, a heartbreaking one replaced it.
In all the time that had passed, I never imagined him loving me. He said he wanted me back. That he deserved me. But he never said he loved me.
Hearing that he loved me threatened to refill the portion of my heart that had a glaring gap in it.
This was his fault, wasn’t it? The cracks in my heart and signature on our divorce paper. If so, why was I the one suffering for it?
Maybe I should have been thankful for Kieran’s interruption. But in that moment, I wanted to know more. I wanted an explanation—I needed an explanation so that I wouldn’t stay up tonight questioning everything Jeremiah had done, wasting all my months of progress separating myself from him.
Yet, here I was, like some conflicted romance character running circles in a nineteenth-century bedroom beside a four-poster bed, changing into white linen pajamas, wondering what I was supposed to do about my ex-husband and the man I hated but kissed.
I heaved the window shut before the rain could soak any more of the carpet. As the edge of the window fitted into its slot, the doorknob clicked. I turned abruptly.
“I forgot we were sharing a room.” Kieran sighed.
I crossed my arms over my chest, realizing the same thing. But all I could focus on were the remnants of rain he was painted in. A puddle of water was expanding around his feet, coming from his soaked hair, drenched button-down sleeves, and wet dress shoes.
“You got caught in the rain?” I swallowed with a knot of confusion lodged in my throat. “I didn’t realize you were outside…”
I expected a sarcastic reply, but instead, he began unraveling his tie with a furrowed gaze directed toward the bed.
“There was a boy outside who works on the grounds. He… uh…” His finger got stuck in one of the loops of wet fabric, sticking to the white dress shirt that wasn’t see-through a half hour ago.
Now, it painted a very vivid image of what his abdomen looked like.
“He was trying to collect everything from the croquet game when it began to pour. I had…” The tie finally fell apart, and his hands braced his hips.
“I saw him through the window and ran out.”
“Oh, was he okay?”
“Well, I scared the shit out of him before he realized what I was doing.” He released a gruff, tired laugh and ran a hand through his wet hair. Each strand curled ever so slightly, like it yearned for his touch. “But then he directed me to where everything went, and we had it done quickly.”
“That’s nice,” I said, pressing the backs of my knees into the ottoman behind me, debating if this was a good time to sit or if that was too casual after what we just did.
Should one sit and extend their legs to pretend like nothing happened? Or maintain a posture of unruffled professionalism? Unfortunately, I didn’t know the rules on How to Act After Kissing Your Worst Enemy.
He finally pulled his gaze from the bed and looked at me. I felt caught. Trapped under his stare that appeared to be undressing my thoughts.
“About earlier, I… I shouldn’t have done that,” he said.
A blush bled through the skin on my chest. “There were people watching us while we were arguing, and you were about to mention how this entire facade is, well, a facade, and I panicked. I didn’t forget about what you had said—about not getting intimate.
” God, I had said that? “So I’m going to find another room,” he said, reaching for his bag.
“No!” I rushed forward, a hand on his sleeve. I squeezed my lips shut in surprise, withdrawing my hand. Kieran’s blue eyes widened with shock.
If Jeremiah found out that we didn’t sleep in the same room, or noticed that Kieran took up a vacated room, he’d never leave me alone. The press would know the next day.
Kieran’s hand paused above his bag. He looked up at me through his falling dark strands.
It was one of those looks that just warmed you from the inside out like a furnace, full of wonder and mystery.
I pulled my arms tight against my chest, taking a step forward as if I were reasoning with an animal.
“Sorry.” I smiled uneasily. “I just meant, well, you can’t. I don’t think that’s a great idea.”
“Why is that?”
“What if someone sees?”
“You think everyone here knows that this is our room?”
“Yes.”
He stood back up, leaving the bag. Exhaustion was showing in the slope of his shoulders. And the fact that he didn’t bother arguing with me.
“All right, I’ll take the floor then,” he said, peeling his soaked shoes off and putting them beside the door.
I eyed the ancient carpet and then looked at Kieran’s drenched clothes. The staff who cleaned these rooms would know someone had slept on the floor. “We can share the bed,” I offered. “It’s not a big deal.”
“I have no problem with sleeping on the—”
“No, it’s fine. You’re technically my guest.” And I can’t allow you to leave an impression in the carpet and then create gossip for Jeremiah to overhear.
He slowly nodded. “Okay. I’m going to hop in the shower then, if you don’t mind.”
I waved my hand like an old woman more than happy to give up her bathroom for a handsome stranger. Pull it together, Luna.
Once the bathroom door shut, I ran to the bed, ripping the sheets back and punching the pillows flat. Maybe I could fall asleep before he even finished. It would be like we never shared a bed!
My heart rate refused to settle from its fast-paced flutter as I held the sheets close to my body. I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when the shower switched off and the bathroom door opened softly. There was a long pause where no sound or floorboard creaks moved through the silent room.
Quietly, I moved the duvet below my eyes to see where he was. When I lifted my head from the pillow, the sight of his exposed back as he pulled on a clean shirt throttled my respiratory system. I shoved the blanket back over my eyes and kept it there until I felt the mattress dip.
Moments of unsteady, unmatched breathing patterns clashed, and I didn’t dare move from my side of the bed. But as the rain pelted the windowpanes, I was lulled to sleep and finally distracted from the warm presence behind me.
The feeling of his hands on my skin and the look in his eyes haunted me in the middle of the night as the lights outside flickered on.
Every time the lamppost’s light was uncovered by a tree, shining through my window, I was met with the nauseating reminder of his words.
They were written in proper cursive that twisted high and low around my nerve endings, his evocative voice trapped in my ears.
You’re breathtaking. You’re breathtaking. Luna, Luna, Luna.