Page 151 of Wrong Number Right Doctor

Maggie is standing near the windows with a glass in her hand. She’s wearing a green dress that hugs her in all the right places and brings out the sea green in her eyes, and for one moment I forget what Alester is saying.

That has never happened to me before.

I have wanted women. I have been married. I understand attraction, timing, poor judgment, all the ordinary ways people convince themselves the body is making a reasonable request.

This is different. This is my attention leaving the room and going straight to her as if the decision has already been made somewhere below thought.

She looks up. Sees me. The change in her is small. Her shoulders settle, just a little, and the glass lowers in her hand.

She’s relieved.

That does more damage than the dress.

“Dalton,” Alester says.

I force my attention back to him. His eyes stay on my face a beat too long.

He saw it. Of course he saw it.

Before he can say anything, someone beside me says, “You still look like you’re about to tell half the room that they’re not making it to the next decade.”

I turn.

Candace.

My ex-wife is standing there in a black dress, holding champagne and looking exactly as unimpressed with the evening as I remember her looking with most evenings. She has always been good at appearing calm without wasting any warmth on it.

“Candace,” I say.

“Dalton.”

Alester’s gaze moves between us. “I’ll give you a moment.” He leaves before either of us answers.

Candace watches him go. “He’s up to something.”

“Yes.”

“You know what?”

“No.”

“That must be uncomfortable for you.”

“Deeply.”

She smiles into her glass. “Good.”

I look back toward Maggie before I can stop myself.

Candace follows the glance.

There’s a pause.

Then she says, “Ah.”

“No.”

“I only said ah.”