Making It Last (Camelot 4)

For an instant, her cheeks bunched, her eyes widened—the delight in them so delicious, he began to smile back, to grin, because Christ, yes, she was going to smile at him, and that was a damn sight better than what he’d thought was going to happen a minute ago—but then she went sort of blank.

Like she hadn’t quite recognized him at first, but then when she really placed him, she remembered that she didn’t feel like smiling.

Tony lost his breath, the blow as effective as a roundhouse kick to the chest.

Amber averted her eyes. Looked down at her drink again.

She lifted it and knocked off the rest of it in four deep gulps, and he tried to get his head around the fact that this person—this eye-catching stranger at the bar—could be his wife.

And that she could decide not to smile at him.

When had this happened? When had she started taking parts of herself back, and why had he let her?

He didn’t know. It scared him how little he knew, now that he was here.

But he wanted to know her. He wanted to know who she’d dressed up for, what she felt, why she’d almost smiled at him and then changed her mind.

He wanted his wife back, and he wanted this woman. Whoever she was.

If she was a stranger, he could be one, too. He’d seen magazine articles that claimed women liked that—liked to pretend to be new and unknown, liked to be seduced all over again by the men they’d married.

The last guy had struck out with the gorgeous brunette at the bar.

Tony hoped like hell he could do better.

* * *

When she looked up, he was right there, leaning against the bar beside her. Big and broad, smelling like woodspice deodorant and Seventh Generation double-concentrated laundry detergent.

Smelling like Tony.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

She was so glad to see him, her skin hurt. Her jaw ached with the pressure of not smiling at him, her fingers twitching to touch him.

Amber held herself in check.

He nodded at the empty glass on the bar. “Buy you another one?”

“Sure.”

Sure, he could buy her a drink. Because that made sense.

It made sense for Tony to be here. Why not? He’d probably dropped by on his way home from work.

No. It was only nine. Considering how badly things were going on the job and how long the commute to Chillicothe was, he wouldn’t be home from work yet.

Maybe this was his lunch break.

She’d forgotten to pack his lunch.

The thought produced a hysterical pressure at the back of her throat, and she clamped down on it, afraid to do anything more than breathe in, because she might break.

One tap would do it, she was so brittle. Iced over. Ever since she’d sat down in the chair at the salon and watched her hair drop to the floor in heavy, wet chunks.

She’d let herself be towed along in the wake of the spa receptionist’s enthusiasm. Brittany had booked the haircut, followed by waxing, massage, sugar scrub, and manicure. Amber had let herself be buffed. She’d felt the hot trickle of a tear at her temple when a stern aesthetician in a lab coat ripped all the hair off her labia, and the tears had kept coming, strangely warm. Inside, she’d felt like she was getting colder.