attempt to remind myself of that fact, but I hate the fake smile unless she’s giving it to someone else.
She’s never given it to me before, not until I started messing with her life. Knowing she’ll give me the real one again eventually, I stand in place by Grant while she pushes to her feet.
“Mr. Nash,” she says with a voice so cold it freezes the blood in my veins, “it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
I accept her hand when she reaches out to me, my eyes trapping hers as my thumb gently strokes her skin. “Call me Harrison, please.”
Or Ari...in that way it sounds like a prayer when an orgasm tears your apart...
Adeline visibly shivers as if she can hear the thought, but snatches her hand away. “Harrison. Of course.”
Grant touches my shoulder, his deep voice driving needles into my skin. “Adeline, I think you’ve forgotten to offer Harrison a drink.”
He looks to me, feigned apology in his eyes.
“You’ll have to forgive her. Dinner was supposed to be ready for when you arrived, but Adeline wasn’t specific with the caterers. We’ll have to wait a half hour. And now she’s apparently forgotten to offer refreshments while we wait.”
His eyes snap to Adeline, mouth thinning as if silently warning her to mind herself in some trained behavior.
It makes me angry, but I decide to expose the asshole a touch more. “It’s so difficult to find good help these days,” I say matter of factly.
Grant nods and laughs. “Exactly what I was thinking.”
Sliding my gaze to Adeline, I search her expression for any sign she’s about to tell this asshole where he can stick his opinion. Finding none, the disappointment covers me like a shroud.
Not even a year married to this man and she’s a shell of who she’d once been. A ghost, really. And it only pisses me off more. I decide to keep poking the bear. Continue exposing the asshole for who he is, peeling him away layer after layer until the girl I remember can’t take it anymore.
Will it be hell on her? Yes.
But is it necessary? Also yes.
“What would you like to drink, Harrison?”
Normally I’m a scotch man, but rather than asking for it, I reach for a memory. “Vodka and cranberry, if you have it.”
It’s Adeline’s favorite drink, one I’d watched her consume far too many times in the clubs she frequented when she was younger. I would most likely have to choke it down, but I’m not here for a pleasant night out. I’m here to remind her of who she once was.
Grant, recovering from hearing the odd choice, snaps his fingers at Adeline when she doesn’t immediately spring to action.
She’s too busy staring at me, trying to figure out how its possible we’re so much alike, meanwhile I’m deciding how to accidentally break Grant’s hand if he snaps at her one more time.
We’re also having a silent conversation, one where she’s calling me an asshole instead of the man snapping his fingers at her. I intend to turn that aggression on its head.
“We should take a seat while Adeline prepares the drinks. Cognac for me.”
Sliding a hand into my pocket, I turn to follow Grant to a small seating area near a large stone fireplace. Flames roll languidly over the logs, not enough to heat the place, but more a nice touch of ambiance in a house with no soul.
He launches into another long-winded bid to secure my investment, and I make a concerted effort not to stare at Adeline while drowning him out.
Instead, I study the room, noting the lack of personal touches: art, photographs, anything that reveals Adeline had a hand in decorating the space. There’s nothing, her vibrant, chaotic style completely absent.
It’s depressing as hell, and I think back to her bedroom in her former house, the hours I’d spent exploring everything there was to know about her when she wasn’t home.
There’s no better way to describe it than eclectic. Take every culture, every style, every time period and shove it all together into a ticking bomb, then let it explode out onto the walls - that was Adeline’s room.
The mix of colors was pure chaos, but somehow worked with the patterned silk tapestries she had covering one wall, the Native American dreamcatchers next to impressionist statues and abstract paintings. Add to that the photographs she’d printed and hung with clothespins and string, the insanity of the dreamscape images she’d captured and manipulated.