Chapter 9
Claudette
Pauline arrived mid-morning carrying two iced coffees.
“I brought sustenance,” she announced, handing me one. “And I’m expecting a full report on married life. Details, Claudette. I want details.”
We settled on the couch, and I found myself smiling already. “It’s been… good, actually. Strange, but good.”
I told her about the organized books. How Michael seemed to know exactly what I loved even down to food preferences, like he’d always paid attention to everything.
“That’s because he has been,” Pauline said with a grin. “I told you the man was gone for you. Absolutely smitten. Has been since forever.”
“You never told me that.” I pointed out.
Her eyes widened as though caught in a lie, then she smiled sheepishly.
“Yes I did. You just don’t remember.” She kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under her. “So? Have you two done it yet? Was it everything teenage-you dreamed of?” She looked too eager.
I smacked her playfully, where was her sense of shame.
“We’re taking things slow.” I replied, my mind drifting to the almost kiss.
Pauline rolled her eyes. “You’re married. How much slower can you take it?”
Before I could respond, I heard the front door open. Male voices in the hallway—Michael’s and another I recognized instantly.
Jack.
Pauline went completely still, like someone had hit pause on her entire nervous system. Her coffee paused halfway to her mouth, and something shifted in her expression. Something that looked almost like panic.
“Did you know he was coming?” she asked quietly.
“No. Michael didn’t mention it.”
They walked into the living room, and I watched it happen in real time. Jack saw Pauline. Pauline saw Jack. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. The air between them was so thick that I practically felt suffocated being in the same room with them.
Jack stopped mid-sentence, whatever he’d been saying to Michael dying in his throat.
Pauline looked away first, her attention was back to her coffee.
“Claudie.” Jack finally tore his eyes away from Pauline. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m good. Pauline just got here.”
“I can see that.” His gaze lingered on her, and I rose a brow. Pauline had angled her body away from Jack, Jack’s jaw was clenched tight. Now I was more than certain that something was happening, or had happened.
“Pauline.” Jack greeted her, a faint smile that looked absolutely wicked curved around his lips.
“Hey.” She didn’t look at him when she said it. Just continued to stare at her coffee like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
The silence that followed was excruciating—like watching two magnets repel each other in slow motion.
Michael cleared his throat. “I need to grab something from my office. Jack, want to help?”
It was a terrible excuse. Everyone knew it. But Jack took it anyway, following Michael out of the room with one last glance at Pauline that she completely ignored.
The second they were gone, I turned to her. “Okay. What was that?”
“What was what?”
“Don’t play dumb. That.” I gestured toward where they’d disappeared. “You and Jack acting like being in the same room causes you physical pain.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She took a long sip of coffee.
“Pauly.” I waited. Patience had never been my strong suit, but I could tell pushing would get me nowhere.
“We should plan a girls’ trip,” Pauline said suddenly, way too brightly, changing the subject with all the subtlety of a freight train. “You and me. Somewhere tropical with terrible drinks and good music.”
“Nice deflection.”
“I’m serious. You’ve been cooped up in this penthouse for over a week. You need sunshine and beaches and—”
“Pauline.”
She sighed. Set down her coffee. “There’s nothing going on between me and your brother.”
“That’s not what it looked like.”
“Well, that’s what it is. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” She stood up, grabbed her purse. “I should go actually. I just remembered I have a thing.”
“What thing?”
“A thing. A very important thing.” She was already heading for the door.
I followed her. “You just got here.”
“And now I’m leaving. We’ll do lunch next week, okay?” She kissed my cheek, squeezed my hand. “Love you. Call me if you need anything.”
She was out the door before I could argue.
I stood there staring at the closed door, trying to process what had just happened. Trying to figure out why my best friend had fled my apartment like it was on fire the second my brother showed up.
Footsteps behind me. Jack appeared in the hallway, saw the closed door, and immediately tensed like a guard dog hearing a suspicious noise.
“She left?” His voice where something resembling disappointment.
“About thirty seconds ago.”
He was moving before I finished the sentence. Grabbed his jacket, headed for the door.
“Jack—”
“I’ll be back.” He didn’t look at me when he said it. Just left, the door closing hard behind him.
I stood there in the sudden quiet, completely baffled.
Michael appeared from his office, took one look at my face, and sighed. “They both left?”
“Jack went after her.” I turned to him. “What is going on with those two?”
“What do you mean?”
“You saw it. That whole…” I gestured vaguely. “Whatever that was. The tension. The ignoring. Jack chasing after her.” I moved closer to him, lowered my voice conspiratorially. “Come on. Give me the gossip. I know you know something.”
His mouth twitched. “I don’t know anything.”
“Liar. You’re Jack’s best friend. He tells you everything.”
“Does he?”
“Michael.” I poked his chest. “Spill. What happened between them?”
“Why don’t you ask them?”
“Because they both ran away before I could.” I poked him again. “Come on. Please? I’m going insane here with nothing to do but wonder about things. Give me something.”
He caught my hand before I could poke him a third time. Held it against his chest. “You’re nosy.”
“I prefer curious.”
“You’re definitely nosy.”
“It’s my best friend and my brother. I’m entitled to be nosy about this.”
“No, you’re not.” But he was smiling now. That small smile that made my stomach flutter. “Stay out of it, Claudette.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m plenty of fun. I’m just not a gossip.”
“Everyone’s a gossip about the right topic. This is clearly the right topic.” I tried to pull my hand back but he held on. “What if they’re secretly in love? What if there’s this whole dramatic history I don’t know about?”
“Then it’s their history to tell you.”
“But I want to know now.”
“Too bad.” He tugged me closer. “Stop meddling.”
“I’m not meddling. I’m investigating.”
“You’re definitely meddling.”
I looked up at him. At the amusement in his eyes. At the way he was still holding my hand against his chest where I could feel his heartbeat under my palm.
“You’re really not going to tell me anything?” I asked.
“Not a word.” He zipped his lips.
“Not even a hint?” I pouted.
“Nope.”
“You’re the worst.” I rolled my eyes.
“So you keep saying.” His thumb brushed across my knuckles. “And yet you keep staying.”
“I’m your wife. Where else would I go?”
“Good point.” His other hand came up, tucked hair behind my ear. “Want to help me with something?”
“Depends on what it is.”
“I’m making lunch. You can keep me company.”
“Is that code for ‘watch Michael cook while doing absolutely nothing useful’?”
“Exactly.”
I let him lead me to the kitchen, still thinking about Jack and Pauline, wondering what history was there that everyone seemed determined to keep from me.
But Michael was already pulling out ingredients, and watching him move around the kitchen was quickly becoming one of my favorite things, so I let it go.
For now.
The next afternoon, I stood in the kitchen staring at the recipe on my phone, trying to remember if I’d ever actually made pasta from scratch before.
The dough looked right. Felt right under my hands.
Michael was in the shower. I could hear the water running through the walls, could imagine him in there—and shut that thought down before it went anywhere dangerous.
I rolled out the dough, cut it into strips, and got the water boiling. Added salt. Waited for the rolling boil. Added the pasta.
That’s when I smelled it.
Burning.
I spun around. The towel I’d left too close to the burner was smoking, flames licking up the fabric.
“Shit!” I grabbed it without thinking, dropped it in the sink, turning on the water.
The fire alarm started screaming.
I couldn’t reach it. Too high. I jumped anyway, waving my hands uselessly at the ceiling like that would somehow help.
The bathroom door flew open.
Michael burst out—and my brain completely short-circuited.
He was dripping wet, soap suds sliding down his chest and shoulders like a scene specifically engineered to ruin my self-control, hair plastered to his forehead. A towel was wrapped around his hips—barely—and water dripped onto the hardwood with each step.
“What happened?” His eyes found the sink, the smoking towel. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. The alarm—”
He was already moving. He grabbed a chair, dragged it over, climbed up and disabled the alarm. The sudden silence was almost as shocking as the noise had been.
He climbed down, and I realized I was staring. At the water running down his chest. At the way his muscles moved under his skin. The tattoos I’d glimpsed that first morning, now fully visible and completely distracting.
“Claudette.” His voice was patient. Amused. “Eyes up here.”
My face went hot. “Sorry. I just—there was a fire.”
“I can see that.” He moved to the sink, inspected the towel. “What happened?”
“I was making pasta. Left the towel too close to the burner. It’s completely my fault.”
He turned back to me—and that’s when I noticed his eyes.
Red.
Watering.
Blinking too fast.
“Are you okay?” I stepped closer.
“Soap in my eyes.” He said it like it was no big deal even though tears were literally streaming down his face. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re crying.”
“I’m not crying. It’s soap.”