For Lucy

I pause my motions.

Tatum holds up her phone—of course I can’t see it from where I stand. She’s baiting me to stop working in her yard, and I have fertilizer yet to spread.

Lucy wins. She always wins. So does her mother for that matter. I drop the bag of fertilizer and pull off my leather gloves as I clomp toward her in my boots to get a closer look at the photo. Taking two steps up onto the porch, I grab her phone and look at the picture.

“She looks happy. Like she’s having a good day,” I say while reminding myself that it’s just a game, and my daughter is too smart to let Josh win her over with a suite.

“I have some leftover banana bread from yesterday. Can I heat you up a piece?”

Handing her back her phone, I narrow my eyes. “I’m going to finish your yard.”

“Yeah, yeah … I know. But you can take a break for banana bread.” She heads back into the house, and after a few seconds of deliberation, I follow her.

“How was the dance competition?”

Tatum glances over her shoulder as she sticks the partial loaf of bread into her toaster oven. The Royals are on the TV in her living room. “Amazing. They took first place. I’m so proud of them.”

I browse around her main floor, mostly watching the game. Her kitchen is smaller than mine, so is the living room. There’s a tiny office with a simple desk against one wall and standing bookshelves along two other walls. A half-bath and a back door to the garage. All of the bedrooms are upstairs along with the laundry room and the full baths.

“I haven’t cleaned anything yet, so stop inspecting my house.” She cuts me off, just as I reenter the kitchen, and hands me a mug of hot chocolate with lots of whipped cream on top.

“Thanks.” I take a sip.

Her gaze lands on my mouth, and she grins. “You have …” She points to her own mouth to mirror where I have whipped cream on my upper lip.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

“Now…” she laughs “…you’ve just smeared it.” She rubs the pad of her thumb along my upper lip.

I grab her wrist, and she jumps. Then, I slowly suck her thumb into my mouth.

“Em … Emmett …”

I don’t stop with her thumb, because I can’t stop. I run my tongue along her palm and press my lips to the inside of her wrist.

Her mouth opens, releasing a heavy breath.

“Why didn’t you tell Josh about the s’mores?”

“It … it was a mistake.”

I shake my head, walking her back a few steps until she hits the edge of the counter. “We’re an accident, not a mistake. But I want to touch you on purpose … be with you on purpose …”

“We … we can’t.”

I kiss her neck, brushing her hair away with my fingers. “Why not?”

I’m a little afraid of her answer. If she says Austin’s name, the moment will end. But over the past few months, she hasn’t looked at me like I single-handedly killed our little boy and obliterated her whole world.

“Because it’s wrong,” she whispers while her fingers thread through my hair, keeping my face in the crook of her neck.

She’s my wife. Was. Is. Always will be.

Touching my wife isn’t wrong.

We kiss and she claws at my back.

I start to lift her T-shirt, and she mumbles, “No. It’s wrong.”

Yet she keeps kissing me. Being her favorite kind of wrong does all the right things to me.

I grip her ass with one hand, and she moans, sliding her tongue deeper into my mouth. When my hand tries to slip under the waistband of her leggings, she mumbles, “Uh-uh, it’s wrong.”

We had sex in other people’s homes—while on the clock. We used to shoplift trivial items just to see if we could get away with it. When did she start living by a moral compass?

My lips keep moving with hers as I fight to hold back my grin. Thank the god of mercy that she doesn’t think that us kissing is wrong because it’s life at the moment. We are more than two terrible people who can’t control our physical instincts. We were married for twelve years. We’ve made three babies together. And maybe that doesn’t matter to some people, but it sure as hell matters to me.

Since it’s wrong to put my hands anywhere but along the outside of her clothes, I return them to her face, kissing her harder. After a few more seconds, I feel her on my leg.

She’s … grinding against my leg.

Taking a chance on her protesting, I lift her onto the counter. She wraps her legs around my waist. There—if she’s going to grind against me, I want to feel her there, not on my leg. It’s been over five years since I’ve had sex, and it’s not my thigh that aches with need.