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I still don’t have a good idea of what I’ll actually be doing day-to-day, but it hardly matters. I remember the guards by the front doors, the guns in their holsters, and know I’m in the right place. My father will be pleased.
On Friday of my first week of work, I wake early and hop in the shower while Bishop eats breakfast. Victoria asked me to come in before nine so we could get a courtroom set up for trial, and I don’t want to be late. As I’m getting dressed, I hear Bishop starting his own shower, and I wait impatiently until he’s finished before heading back to the bathroom to brush my teeth. “Oh, sorry,” I say, brought up short in the doorway. “I thought you were done. ”
Bishop looks at me, the lower half of his face covered in lather, a razor in his hand. He is wrapped in a towel at his waist and nothing else, showing off the lean muscles of his stomach. His dark hair is slicked back with water, his bare chest as smooth and golden as the rest of him. He has a tiny, pale brown birthmark just beneath his ribs. I don’t know what to do with my eyes, can’t find any safe spot for them to settle. “It’s fine,” he says. “There’s room. ”
There’s really not, but I sidle in next to him and he moves back a step to make space for me in front of the small mirror. It’s so quiet as I put toothpaste on my toothbrush that I can hear the drag of his razor against his skin. The bathroom smells of soap and mint and something fundamentally male that makes my neck flush with heat.
I keep my eyes on my toothbrush and then on the sink as I brush. But after I wipe my mouth and straighten up, my gaze catches Bishop’s in the mirror. We stare at each other, and my whole body tingles with awareness. I try to think what a wife would do in this situation, but I don’t have a lot to go on considering I grew up in a house without a mother. Before I can second-guess myself, I turn and plant a quick kiss on his bare shoulder. “Thanks for sharing,” I tell him. My heart is trying to beat its way out of my body and my lips burn where they met his warm skin.
I risk a look up at Bishop, preparing myself for what might come next. He is my husband and there are only a few strips of cloth separating us. This may be the moment when he is no longer content to wait. The thought sends both fear and a strange buzzing heat through my chest. But Bishop only stares at me, then barks out a laugh—not a very nice one. He wipes the last remnant of shaving cream off his face with a hand towel.
“What?” I demand, humiliation painting my cheeks red. “Why are you laughing?”
He pushes out of the bathroom ahead of me, and I follow behind him to the bedroom. His hand falls to his waist and he glances at me over his shoulder. “Fair warning,” he says, “I’m about to drop this towel. ”
I whirl around and step out into the hall. Behind me, I hear the towel hit the floor, the sound of clothes rustling. When Bishop emerges, he’s wearing shorts and pulling a T-shirt down over his flat stomach. “You didn’t answer me,” I remind him. “What was so funny?”
He pauses and runs a hand through his still-damp hair. “Don’t fake it on my account, Ivy,” he says, his words clipped. “That’s not what I want. And it shouldn’t be what you want, either. ”
Frustration ripples through me. “I’m sorry we can’t all be as perfect as you are,” I say. “I’m sorry I don’t always know the exact right thing to do or say at the exact right time!”
Bishop’s jaw tightens. “I’m not perfect. ”
“Well, it’s kind of hard for us mere mortals to tell,” I say. “Don’t you ever get upset or angry or embarrassed? Do you feel anything?”
He blows out a breath, takes a step toward me. The hallway is so narrow that I’m pinned between the wall and his body, heat rolling off him in waves. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I feel things. ” His green eyes burn. It’s the most emotion I’ve seen from him so far, and I have trouble taking a full breath, my lungs compressed with tension. “That’s the whole point, Ivy. I want you to feel them, too. ”
I open my mouth, close it again, not sure how to respond.
“Forget it,” Bishop says. The last thing I hear is the front door slamming behind him.
What do you wear for a dinner with your enemy? I stand in the middle of the bedroom, every article of clothing I own forming a pitifully small mountain on the bed. The only real dress I have is the one I wore on my wedding day, and I never want to put it on again. Just the slide of the material against my skin makes me wince. But somehow I think Mrs. Lattimer would not appreciate me showing up in shorts and a T-shirt. What I want is to curl up with one of the books I borrowed from President Lattimer’s library. But I have to face the Lattimers sometime. It won’t do me any good to pretend they don’t exist.
President and Mrs. Lattimer summoned us for dinner yesterday, more than two weeks after the wedding. Perhaps they couldn’t stomach the thought of me in their home before that. We were told to be there at eight, and Bishop said they always dined late, even when he was a boy. There is something unsettlingly pretentious about it.
I finally decide on a black skirt, short but loose, with flat black sandals and a pale purple tank top. I leave my hair down, where it falls to the middle of my back in crazy waves I long ago gave up trying to tame. It will have to be good enough. I’m not interested in spending any more time trying to impress them.
Bishop is waiting for me in the living room, wearing jeans and a black dress shirt, the collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up.
“You look nice,” he says to me.
“Thank you,” I say. My eyes are drawn to his bare forearms, and against my will I remember how he looked without his shirt, all smooth skin and lean muscle. A tiny pulse beats low in my belly. I raise my gaze up to his face, find him watching me.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” he says. “I shouldn’t have laughed. ”
“I’m sorry, too,” I say. “I’m trying. I just…I don’t always know what I’m supposed to do. ” The understatement of my life.
“There’s no supposed to, Ivy,” he says. “I don’t have a checklist. ”
Ah, but I do, I think. And the fact that this boy knows when I’m faking affection, trying to force a connection, makes everything so much more difficult. Why can’t he be like a normal eighteen-year-old? The kind who would take a kiss from a girl no matter why it was offered? Instead, Bishop wants authenticity, which is the one thing I cannot give him.
It is still light out when we leave the house, although the sun is starting to sink in the sky as we walk, our footsteps keeping time with each other on the empty sidewalk.
“How was your first week on the job?” Bishop asks.
“Good. I mean, so far I’m not doing anything too exciting. Mainly organizing files. But it’s nice to have somewhere to go every day, something to do. ”
“I’m glad,” he says. “I know the days can get long if you don’t have a purpose. ”
Is he talking about himself? He leaves the house every morning, but I never have any idea where he’s going. And most days he comes home smelling like sunshine, which is probably in short supply inside council meetings. Maybe he’s been going to the river, while I’ve been at the courthouse. He hasn’t told me and I haven’t asked.