Page 5 of The Husband I Left

“Hi. Um. This is Genny from, um — you came into the restaurant where I work a couple of days ago? Bill’s Sportsbar? You left your number on the—”

“Genevieve.” His voice suddenly sounded much warmer. “I’m glad you called. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t.”

“I almost didn’t,” I admitted. And then, since my brain apparently became disconnected from my mouth around Oliver, I blurted out, “My roommate thought you might be a serial killer.”

There was a pause, and I remember kicking myself, sure that I had probably just offended him. And then Oliver laughed. It wasn’t a forced laugh or a chuckle. It was an actual real laugh. I had actually managed to make the stone faced man who sat at my booth in the diner laugh, and I sat there on my couch grinning like a fool.

“And what did you think?” he asked a minute later.

“I decided it was worth the risk.”

“I’m flattered. You’re in no danger with me, just for the record.”

“That sounds exactly like something a serial killer would say.”

He laughed again, and I decided then and there that I was going to make this man laugh every day.

“I’d like to take you to lunch. Saturday. I’ll send a car for you at noon.”

Not the most romantic way to ask someone on a first date, but then Oliver never exactly a romantic. And he never asked. He just assumed. In any case, I agreed.

The car he sent was black and gleaming. The driver held my door open for me. The restaurant was nicer than any place I have ever been in my life. I felt awkward and out of place, especially when the server led us to our table. Oliver wore a gray suit. I wore jeans.

So I did what I always do when I’m nervous. I talked.

Oh, God, did I talk.

I told him about my parents. I told him about my brothers and sister and their children. I told him about my mom’s rosebushes. I told him about my college classes and my professor, who wears the same sweater every day. I told him about Harlow, who thought he was hot and wanted to call him herself if I didn’t. I told him about the time I tripped and dumped an entire tray of nachos on a guy’s head at Bill’s. I told him about the apartment I shared with Kylie. I told him what my favorite ice cream flavor is, and at some point, and this is the part I will never forgive myself for, I described in detail the plots of the first three Bridgerton novels.

At some point, I realized I was doing all the talking, and he wasn’t saying much about himself. Just listening and occasionally asking questions.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, pressing my napkin to my burning cheeks. “I’m talking your ear off. You must think I’m completely—”

“I think,” he said as he refilled my wineglass. “that I love listening to you talk. Don’t ever apologize for being yourself.”

I think I fell a little bit in love with him right then and there.

He took me to a wine tasting on our second date. The sommelier knew him by name and looked at me curiously. I don’t think I was the kind of woman he was used to seeing Oliver with. But Oliver was so charming that I quickly forgot my discomfort. For two hours, I had the complete, undivided attention of the most magnetic man I’d ever met, and it was intoxicating. When Oliver’s driver pulled up outside my building, I was still giddy with joy.

Oliver walked me to my door and then he paused, looked at me with those amazing blue eyes, and said, “Can I kiss you, Genevieve?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Definitely yes.”

He cupped my face in one hand, his thumb brushing over my freckled cheek, and he kissed me. Slowly. Deeply. Like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it. By the time he pulled back, I was clutching at his shirt and not entirely sure of what my own name was.

“Have a good night, Genevieve,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over my lip. Then he was gone.

On our third date, after dinner, he asked me to come home with him.

The penthouse was one of the most beautiful spaces I’d ever been in. The whole of the city was glittering at our feet, and I barely noticed any of it.

Oliver worshipped me. He undressed me slowly, kissed every freckle, made me feel like my ordinary body was a work of art. After, when I lay tangled up in the sheets, he rolled over and said, “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

In that moment, I was happier than I had ever been before.

* * *

What followed was not so much dating as it was being swept out to sea.