Casual Affair

He was wrong.

“How is it I’ve reached such a low I’m coming to you for relationship advice?” Zane asked in bewilderment.

Peter chuckled, propping his feet on the ottoman. “Well, first, I knew you’d come to me with your tail between your legs one day, crying about a girl. I’ve told you that myself. And two, marriage changes a man, mate. If a new husband doesn’t learn the ways of the female mind right off, he’ll quickly find himself heading for the divorce courts.” He looked over his shoulder and yelled, “Right, darling?”

“Exactly!” came Sara’s voice from the kitchen.

Zane groaned inwardly. “She’s been listening the whole time?”

“Yes!” Sara replied before Peter could. “And for once, my dear husband actually knows what he’s talking about!”

Peter winked at him. “No privacy in marriage, mate. Something to look forward to.”

That was actually fine with Zane because he didn’t want privacy from Bea.

Wait, had he just put marriage in the same sentence with Bea?

Hell, did he want to marry her?

Fuck, yeah.

He still had some work to do before that could happen, but he was definitely putting it on his to-do list.

Because before he could get her to marry him, he first had to get her to date him.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Bea had been grumpy before her talk with Felicity. Now she was downright melancholy. When Zane hadn’t answered her phone call, she had become despondent, assuming it was the end of them. And that had sent her into a tailspin.

The more she thought about it, the angrier she was at herself for the way she’d handled things with him. For not seeing the error of her ways sooner. It also didn’t help that she was horny as hell, seeing as how she hadn’t been touched—not even by herself—since he left.

Spending Thanksgiving with her family in Alabama had helped to temporarily distract her from the mess she had made of her life. But as she and Felicity flew back into DC, she realized she needed to face the facts again. And she was going to need a lot of wine to do it.

She was so irritable that instead of handling her luggage carefully while hauling it out of the trunk of the cab, she tossed it onto the sidewalk in disgust.

“What did that suitcase ever do to you?” Felicity asked.

She gritted her teeth. “It exists.”

Felicity nodded once. “Copy that.”

Bea couldn’t even laugh or make a joke as Felicity struggled to pull her own giant suitcase up the concrete steps of their stoop. Four of her sister could have fit inside that suitcase—the top of it literally came to her waist—but Bea couldn’t even crack a smile.

My God. Was she even the same person anymore?

She dropped her bag as soon as she stepped inside the door, and headed straight for the wine rack. Thank God it was stocked. She was tempted to drink right out of the bottle, but she forced herself to maintain some decorum and grabbed a glass.

As Bea gratefully poured out her liquid therapy, the doorbell started ringing.

She ignored it. Felicity could answer. They sometimes had packages for the business delivered to their place, and she wasn’t sure she could handle anyone else on the planet right then, let alone a rude delivery guy. It rang a second time.

“Hey, short stack!” she yelled. “You want to get the door?”

No answer.

The doorbell rang a third time.

Well, damn it to hell.

She took off for the door, stomping and grunting and cursing the inventor of doorbells. God help the poor bastard out there waiting for her to sign for that package, because he was about to get a whole lot of angry woman in his face. It didn’t help that she tripped over her own damn suitcase on the way. She got her revenge, though, by unleashing holy hell on the luggage, kicking the crap out of it before she got to the doorknob.

All she wanted was to be left alone with her pity. And her wine. Was that so much to ask?

She whipped open the door with a manic, “What?” her hair and eyes wild, no doubt presenting an image that would have made most men piss their pants.

But she almost pissed her own when she saw who was standing on her doorstep.

Her British crumpet. Her very own English muffin.

Zane was standing there with a nervous expression on his face, and a single white lily in his hand.