is you never ever answer the door looking like a walking wet dream!” he snarls at me, breathing heavily.
Embarrassed, I drop my eyes, heat flushing my cheeks and neck.
He slides a hand under my chin and lifts it to make me look at him.
“Go and put some clothes on and we’ll talk, yeah?”
I take the reprieve he’s offering and pull free, making a beeline for the chair beside my bed that holds a bunch of clean laundry. I snatch them up and lock myself in the bathroom, willing my racing heart to calm down before it beats right out of my chest. Why this man affects me this way even after everything is beyond me.
I slip on a pair of dark gray fitted yoga pants and pull a slouchy heather-pink off-the-shoulder sweater over my tank top before removing the hair clip holding my hair up and letting it fall around my shoulders.
I head back out, not wanting him to wander around my space, but come to a stop when I see him checking out my art. Fuck.
“You did these? They are incredible.”
Warmth seeps into me at his words. I love my art but suffer from a serve case of imposter syndrome. I cough and indicate for him to sit at one of the stools at the breakfast counter.
He opens the button on his dark gray suit jacket and slides it off, draping it over the back of the sofa he passes, before rolling up his shirt sleeves to reveal muscular tanned forearms. Oh boy, what is it about rolled-up shirtsleeves? It gets me every time.
I busy myself with grabbing my mug and rinsing out the cold coffee before reaching for a cup for Asher.
“You want one?” I offer solicitously, figuring the sooner he says what he needs to, the sooner he’ll leave.
“Sure, black for me.”
I pour his coffee and slide it over to him before taking a seat on the other stool, making sure there is plenty of space between us
“Okay, you wanted to talk, so talk,” I urge him, raising the cup to take a sip.
“I want a chance to prove myself to you.”
When I open my mouth to interrupt, to tell him it's not needed, he stops me by talking some more.
“When you woke up that morning in the hotel room, you didn’t seem freaked out at all until I asked you to leave like a fucking tool. Tell me, Linda, if I had wanted more, if I had given you the green light and wanted to give this marriage thing a shot, would you have taken it?” he asks, placing his mug on the counter before doing the same with mine. Taking my hand in both of his, he leans closer to me before I can protest. “Please, Linda, just be honest with me,” he implores quietly, and even though I don't want to humiliate myself by admitting the truth, I do.
I cough and nod.
He dips his head and sighs.
“I want a do-over.” His thumb traces circles on my skin, causing goosebumps to rise on my arms. “I want to get to know my wife.”
“Why?” I know that guarding my heart against this man would be impossible. Do I truly want to open myself up to the potential of being hurt by him again?
When he answers, he meets my gaze head-on.
“Truthfully, I never wanted to get married. After watching my father do it over and over again, I just stopped believing in the sanctity of it. But when I look at you, when I think about the possibility of us, I want to explore it further.”
I swallow hard. “I…I spent a lot of time finding myself in the year since I last saw you. I’m not sure I want to end up back playing a role I’m unsuited for.”
“Then give me a trial run. Be my wife for three months, and if at the end of it you still want out, I’ll grant you the divorce and give you enough money to set you up someplace nicer than here, with space for your own separate studio.”
“What?” I ask in shock.
He leans closer, “I’m serious. It will be like dating but in reverse. Please, Linda, don’t you want to be able to stand back in years to come and say you did everything you could before we gave up and called it quits?”
“You’re crazy!” I blurt out.
“Maybe, but I’m also deadly serious.” His stare is unwavering.
“What are you expecting me to do?” I ask him warily, surprised that