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performing arts school Downtown, and she’s in Les Mis.”
I could leave the stall naked. He’d just go on about his business,
because that was all we were. Business with a touch of friendship. He didn’t
want me. That was how he could just walk in on me in the shower.
“And?” he said.
“And I think she’s a great person. I want to support her.”
“The guy. Amilcar. What’s going on with him?”
How could he still be uncomfortable with Amilcar? I could bust his
balls about his friendship with Mandy or any other woman in his orbit, but
that would have missed the point. He was transparently jealous.
“What do you mean?” I wrapped the towel around myself, knowing
exactly what he meant.
“How often do you see him?”
“A few times since we got married.” I opened the door and stepped onto
the heated marble floor. “Why? You think I’m breaking our agreement? Is
that why you haven’t bought a single fucking share of Papillion yet?”
“No.”
I brushed past him to peer in a mirror unfogged by the steam. Some rich
person’s way of avoiding the inconvenience of condensation. “Good.”
“I admire you for waiting until after the divorce.”
Was he serious?
I looked right at him.
He was dead fucking serious.
“I’ve known him a long time,” I said. “He’s a good man who’s dealt
with more shit since last Tuesday than you’ve dealt with your whole life.
And I’m not fucking him. He’s my friend and he always will be. Period.”
His eyes drifted from my face to my neck and down to where my towel
was knotted over my breasts. I wanted to believe my nipples tightened
because they got cold, but I couldn’t lie to myself. It was the way he looked
at me.
“Does he know?” Logan asked. “About why we’re married?”
A tendril of wet hair fell out of place, dropping over my eye. He gently
brushed it back, and I shuddered at his touch.
“No. I told you. Just Mandy.”
“About Paris…”
“You want me to flip the coin again?”