I suddenly understand what he meant earlier, when he said he could be gross.

I take the book from him and leaf through the first few pages. Where I see this introduction: “For everyone who is misjudged or misunderstood.”

He’s right. This is a book we need on our shelves.

And did he say, “I can’t wait to read it again”?

“Thank you,” I say sincerely. I put the book on the cocktail table. “Thank you,” I whisper, and kiss him.

He’s not laughing now. He’s kissing me back, the kind of kiss that wants more, wants everything.

He’s not laughing as I slide to my knees in front of him.

He’s not laughing as I unbuckle his belt. Unzip his pants. Gently free him, and just in time. He’s rock hard.

“Chloe,” he gasps, as I circle him with my tongue, teasing for a moment. I inhale his intimate scent.

My lips are around him now, moving and sucking, enjoying the connection and the power. Then he begins to move too, fingers threading in my hair, his hands guiding me to his perfect rhythm until I hear him moan and he bursts into my mouth, masculine and delicious.

This is as close as I can get to experiencing what he feels, and I love it.

I love that he loves it.

“That was worth waiting for,” I say, and I smile to myself.

“Incredible,” he’s saying, his breathing ragged, “unbelievable.”

“Come to bed,” I tell him. “You can read Walter at three a.m.”

He gives me a sad smile. “An hour ago, I’d have had to decline, because I had plans with my son. But he texted me.”

“He ditched you?”

“He postponed.”

I stand up and reach my hand toward him. “I’m sorry he did, but his loss is my gain. Now you don’t have to postpone with me.”

Nick stands and grins, following my lead.

And just as we tiptoe past Holly’s room, she begins to cry.

Chapter 16

Nick

“Nick, darling,” Simone says, Jean-Marc carrying her luggage into the guest bedroom. “Guest bedroom” is a stretch – Jean-Marc gave up his bedroom and is crashing on the sofa bed in the living room, home from fall semester for a break in honor of his mother’s appearance. Charlie is couch surfing with a friend. He and Simone were never exactly close.

That’s like saying Donald Trump is just a tad unpopular in Scotland.

“Simone.” I embrace her, kissing both cheeks, polite to a fault. She wears the same perfume, her style unchanged after all these years, body tight and slimly compact, no extra movement wasted. Her dark hair is pulled back into a chic knot at the nape of her neck. She wears bright red lipstick, with tiny wrinkles lining her mouth. Her lower lids bear thick eyeliner, and all those years of narrowed eyes have left her with a cat-like appearance and what would be called “laugh lines” on anyone else etch deeply into her face, like a series of angry scratches.

“You look the same. How long has it been?” Her question is rhetorical. She knows.

“Nearly four years ago. When the twins graduated high school.” Rolf was with her. We spent three hours together. Three hours of watching my kids paraded around for pictures and accolades. Simone excluded me from the rest of her visit on the grounds that Rolf was “too jealous and unstable.”

She didn’t bother to attend Jean-Marc’s graduation, instead flying him and a friend of his choice to spend a special week in Paris with her.

“Four years!” Her smile plays at the corners of her mouth like a surgeon’s thread and needle, stretching as it tightens with precision. “Time has been good to you.”

The leading compliments aren’t designed to flatter me. They’re designed to trigger a similar response from me.

But I’m not Pavlov’s dog any longer.

And Simone’s bell doesn’t work.

“How was your flight?” I ask, gesturing toward the living room, where sofas and Jean-Marc await.

Her lips part, my offensive behavior duly noted as her tongue saves the day, hiding her reaction, tickling the upper line of teeth. One front top tooth slightly overlaps the other, just enough to be endearing. When she smiles, she is symmetrical, her face so aligned she might have been designed rather than born. The curved tooth always added extra charm. Even Simone had a flaw.

“Tedious, as always. Everyone sits with their face in a screen. First class is no different now. And people wear sweatpants.” Her nose crinkles in distaste.

“Maman? Espresso with lemon?”

“Now that is a young man who knows how to treat a woman,” she says with a wink, her red lips spreading with a smile, chin upturned as she calls out to our son. “Oui! And a small glass of cognac, s’il te plaît.”

I say nothing.

“You’ve kept the place exactly the same,” she says in a tone that makes it clear this is not a compliment. “If I look in your closets, I will find the same suits I helped you choose before the children were born.” Her eyes crawl up my body as I stretch on the sofa, one arm across the back, the other clinging to my beer like a life raft. She is cataloguing me in a methodical, seductive manner that would be incredibly arousing if it were any other woman.

If it were Chloe, I would be hard by now, shifting in my seat to adjust myself, mind whirring through all the possibilities such a gaze offered.

But that’s not happening now.

Because it is Simone.

She’s waiting for me to reply. I’ve been in my head and memory too long.

“You would,” I admit. “You had good taste.”

“Had?” She gestures to her dress and earrings, primping her hair jokingly. On the surface, it’s all in good fun.

But I know the Simone underneath, and this is anything but fun.

It is a game, though.

“Have.” I’ll be the gentleman. It costs me nothing.

“We bought this place with nothing, didn’t we?” she says looking around with sad eyes. “My trust fund, your graduate school stipend.”

“And the trust from my accident,” I add. When I was in eighth grade, Charlie and I were playing street hockey one day, out in the street where we grew up in Westwood. A drunk hit us. I broke my arm, Charlie broke a leg, and our parents put the insurance settlement money into a trust for us. When we each turned twenty-one, it was ours.