Page 129 of The Professor's Wife

The guilt never went away. If anything, every day it sat there, clinging to the edges of my vision. I was always blinking back tears and turning on myself.

I hatedmyself.

If anything, every day that went by that Oliver gave me love further cemented how much I didn’t deserve him.

June was right.

Dinner was on the stove and ready, and Rowe was in bed, sleeping. Even though it was evening, I had on a nice red dress. Oliver said red on a woman made a man’s head turn, and I wanted his head to turn. He had been so busy lately, and I felt cooped up at the house. My days consisted of taking Rowe to and from school and then to his extracurriculars. I wouldn’t dare complain about it. Oliver had provided an excellent house for me to look after, and even though we had yet to conceive, I knew that logically this was the right move for us.

Emotionally, on the other hand, I still longed to go back to school and study. I had let the semesters slide by since my disastrous rejection letter, and I was starting to wonder about trying again.

I had worked on myself so much. I was present mentally. I maximized my time with Rowe and embraced being a housewife.

But I wanted more.

Had I proved myself worthy to try at it again?

I was pretty sure I had. I had written countless letters to Oliver apologizing for my actions and always thanking him for being with me. I brought up Rowe because I wanted him to know that he had not just filled a hole in my heart, but Rowe’s as well.

Food was on the table when Oliver arrived home at 7:00 p.m. sharp. It was beautifully presented. The chicken breast had been perfectly brined before cooking, and the risotto was soft and tasty. Since being homebound so much, I’d become an impressive cook.

“Wow,” Oliver said from behind me.

My heart burst as a smile stretched wide. I’d just settled his bowl of risotto down and turned to him, feeling my pride surge as he took in the dinner table and then my dress.

As he walked over, he settled his leather messenger bag down on the counter. A moment later, his arm was wrapped around me as he delivered a soft kiss to the tip of my nose.

“You look remarkable,” he whispered.

“You wanted me to wear my dresses.” He’d been imploring me to. Had told me they would collect dust if I didn’t wear them. When I told him there would be no occasion for it as I was in the house so much, he said he could be the occasion if it meant I would finally spoil myself, and now, here I was, dressed like I was about to have a night out.

I had to admit he was right. The dresses were going to good use, and wearing them made me feel pretty and feminine.

Plus, he looked like this: intense and wanting.

“I’m glad you finally listened,” he said. “I want this every day.”

“The dresses?”

“And the dinner. And you being here, in this home. Just knowing you’re here, in what used to be an empty house, does something to me.”

“If it makes you happy, I’ll do this for you.”

“Every day.”

I let out a laugh as he kissed my neck. “Well, I’ll try, but I don’t want to feel like a housewife all the time.”

It surprised me how deeply I meant that.

He must not have noticed because he chuckled easily. “Of course.”

His mouth remained against my neck, and I tilted my head to give him better access. His hand traveled slowly down my back, gathering some of the material of my dress in his fist.

I knew what he liked now.

I knew where to touch him, how deeply to kiss him, which sounds made his breathing change. I had learned to watch hisface and adjust myself to whatever brought that hungry look into his eyes.

He turned me around and kissed me, harder this time. I slipped my hand between us and ran it over the front of his pants. His breath caught, and he immediately hardened.