Page 80 of Colt
I didn’t push for more. Neither did he.
But the air between us had changed.
Chapter 32
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— Colt —
The days that followed our date at the jazz club were the longest of my life. Not because I doubted her. Because I didn’t, and that was the problem.
She’d sat across from me in that bar and said she wanted to be my old lady. Said it soft, almost shy, color rising in her cheeks. And I’d had to use every bit of discipline I had not to put her on the back of my bike right then. Take her back to the clubhouse. Remind her exactly what it used to be like between us.
That thought had ridden home with me and hadn’t left. Her voice sayingold ladylike she was testing how it felt in her mouth. The blush. The way she’d looked at me after, like she’d surprised herself.
I wanted her. I’d always wanted her. But she was trusting me with something fragile, and she deserved to be certain—really certain—before I stopped being careful. So I’d told her a few days. Meant it. Went home and took a very long, freezing shower.
The cold showers didn’t cut it—helped for about ten minutes, then I was right back where I started. Lying on top of the covers at two in the morning thinking about the way she’d looked at me, that blush, that mouth. So I took care of it myself—hand on my cock, just me and my thoughts of her. More than once. Thought about her the whole time, which didn’t do much for the sleeping problem, but it helped with the other one.
She texted three days after the jazz club:I still want to see your room.
I wrote back:Anytime.Then I had to head back into the cold shower.
She was there within the hour.
My room wasn’t much. Just a bed, a dresser, some photos stuck to the mirror. Not the room I’d had before. When I found out she was alive I’d moved, quietly, without telling anyone why. Stripped it down, started clean. I’d never thought about what it looked like until I was standing in the doorway watching Lilac walk into it.
“It’s small,” I said, because I had to say something.
She looked around with curious eyes. “It’s yours. That makes it interesting.”
She crossed to the dresser. Studied the photos on the mirror—her and the boys, mostly. Shots I’d taken on my phone that night at Betty’s, photographing the albums she’d spread across the table: Luca and Knox as newborns, as toddlers, the boys at birthdays and firsts I’d missed. A few solo ones of Lilac, caught between moments, ones I’d zoomed in on without saying why. Then her hand moved to the corner of the mirror, where I’d tucked the wedding photo half-behind a strip of others.
She reached for it without asking. Brought it close to her face.
I held my breath.
She went still. Not gradually—all at once, like a switch thrown. Her eyes stopped moving. She was looking at the photo, but I wasn’t sure she was seeing it.
Then she sat down on the edge of my bed, and I stayed where I was—afraid to move and disrupt whatever was happening inside her head.
She set the photo face-up on the dresser and looked around the room again. Slower this time. Taking inventory.
“Have other women been in here?”
I didn’t flinch. She deserved a straight answer. “Not this room. I moved when I found out what really happened to you. New bed, new mattress. No woman’s been through that door.”
“But before.”
“Yeah. Before.” I held her gaze. “I wasn’t a monk for seven years. Wasn’t looking for anything either—just scratching an itch when it got bad enough and moving on. That’s the honest answer.”
I let that sit. “The papers were forged. I know that now. Which means for part of those seven years I was still your husband when I—” I stopped. “I thought I was a divorced man. I wasn’t. I’m sorry for that.”
She was quiet for a moment. “I wasn’t either.”
I went still.
“I’m not saying that to hurt you.” Her voice was even. “I had no memory of you. I don’t feel like I betrayed anyone, because as far as I knew there was no one to betray.” She paused. “And I don’t hold your history against you for the same reason. You thought I was gone. You thought you were free.”
