The Almost Wives Club: Kate

“You work out,” she murmured, hours later, kissing his taut, almost-a-six-pack abs.

  “I do. Tennis, golf, squash, any sport a corrupt businessman might play. Playing sports is a great way to get close to some of the men I investigate. People let down their guard when they’re sweating and competitive.”

  She made a face. “Do you do anything for fun? For you?”

  “Yep. I was pretty much born on skis. I took up snowboarding a few years ago. I also play soccer a couple of times a week in a recreational men’s league.”

  She stretched, feeling the delicious sense of relaxation, the echoes of pleasure still reverberating.

  “And I’ve recently taken up surfing.”

  She traced the lines of his ribs, like a ladder, with a fingertip. “Have you? And how’s that going?”

  “I’ve got a super hot instructor. Makes it tough to concentrate on the lesson sometimes, but I think I love it.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Yeah.” He captured her hand in his own. “Except sometimes when I’m surfing I kind of forget what I’m doing and start fantasizing about her.”

  “You do?” Her voice came out all breathy, like she’d just run a marathon.

  “Yep. There’s something about hitting the sweet spot on a wave when you’re gliding and so high on it that you feel like you’re floating on the top of the world. It makes me think about making love with my teacher.”

  “Mmm.”

  “You know what I want to do?”

  “What?”

  “Have sex on a surf board.”

  She laughed. “You are so crazy.”

  “Think about it. Wouldn’t it be amazing?”

  “No. It would be tippy and unstable and you’d probably drown.”

  “I think we should find out. Go out there while it’s dark and see what happens.”

  “Without a wet suit? It’s freezing out there.”

  He grinned over at her in the dark. “So, it’s not the making love on a surfboard that’s stopping you. It’s the water temperature.” His expression pretty much said, Gotcha. “All we have to do is wait for the weather to warm up.”

  “Which won’t be for months. Are you still going to be here?”

  He sighed. “Probably not. But we could make a date.”

  Which implied they’d be seeing each other again. “We could.”

  She rolled over and kissed him. “I should go.”

  He kissed her back, “No. You really shouldn’t.”

  “Whew, this is getting pretty serious. You want me to sleep over on our first date?”

  “Second date,” he reminded her.

  “I don’t have a toothbrush.”

  “I always have a spare. I travel so much it’s easy to forget one in a hotel room or someplace, so I keep a few with me.”

  And because she really didn’t want to get dressed and go home in the middle of the night, and because she was no longer a woman who lived her life by rigid rules, she agreed.

  The next morning they made breakfast together. She’d expected to feel shy, but he looked so happy to see her when he woke up, that she forgot to be shy.

  She wore one of his T-shirts that hung to her thighs and padded around his kitchen making scrambled eggs and toast while he took care of bacon and coffee.

  It was companionable. He was a pretty chatty morning person, and she was happy to let him talk while she sipped coffee. She was not so much a morning person.

  She got a call as they were finishing breakfast, it was Mike telling her he’d booked her a lesson for later in the day.

  After breakfast, she loaded the dishwasher and he washed the pans, so choreographed you’d think they’d been together for years instead of one night.

  She wasn’t sure what the etiquette was. When was she supposed to leave? She didn’t live like this, but Nick did. It wasn’t something she could ask him, though. Hey, by the way, with your killer reputation with women, you must know the correct procedure for leaving the morning after. Was it right after breakfast? Was there some hint or sign that was universally accepted? And that she didn’t know?

  While she was wondering, he went to a seriously high tech looking briefcase, unlocked it with a code, and flipped open the lid. He drew out a beige file folder, like a million others she’d seen.

  He placed it on the table where they’d recently eaten breakfast. She peered at the tab but there was a case file number on it, no name.

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  “Your case file.”

  He sat down and flipped open the cover.

  He pulled out the chair beside him and she sat. She couldn't imagine what was in that folder and wasn’t completely certain she wanted to know.

  He caught a glimpse of her face and grinned. “Don’t worry. There’s nothing in here that’s going to embarrass you or make you wish the internet had never been invented.”

  “Good.”

  He flipped through and then pulled out a series of photographs. He began laying them out on the table, as though this were a game of solitaire. Only every card had her picture on it.

  “I started with some photos of when you were a teenager. Your mom would have happily given me all your baby photos, but frankly, subjects don't become interesting until the teen years.”

  The first picture he showed her was of her and her cousins at the beach. Since she was an only child, she’d spent a lot of time with her cousins growing up. They’d just come in from surfing and were goofing around in front of the camera.

  “I was fifteen in that picture. So what?”

  “Actually, you were sixteen. And look at the expression on your face.”

  “I’m smiling at the camera.”

  He didn’t comment, merely laid out more photos. One of her surfing, where the photographer had caught her coming out of a curl and she could feel the sheer joy of the moment. The picture made her smile.

  There were a few more from the high school years, then college and the Jennifer Aniston hair, the Ugg boots, the tight jeans. A few of the photos showed her at parties but nothing that made her want to snatch the photographs and burn them.

  Here she was skiing, and on a backpacking trip with some other girls during spring break. Here was the inevitable Cancun trip. Suntans, bikinis, margaritas. Some boy whose name she’d forgotten.

  And then he set up a second series of photos. Here she was again, still smiling for the camera. Always smiling.

  In the first photo, she was holding hands with Ted at a backyard barbecue. She thought they’d been going out a few months by then.

  All the photos were of her and Ted; out for dinner with Ted and his parents, dressed up for some gala event. Christmas dinner with Ted’s family.

  The engagement party. She pulled that photo closer and studied it. What was she thinking, that blond woman with the big ring on her finger and a glass of champagne in her hand? Someone had snapped this while Duncan Carnarvon was making a toast, welcoming her to the family. She hadn’t known it was being taken. She looked...bemused.

  “What do you notice?” Nick asked her, “Between the pre-Ted pictures and the post-Ted ones.”

  She had no idea, so she studied the two sets more carefully.

  When she didn’t say anything, he spoke. “You see it, don’t you? You’re carefree in the earlier pictures. Your smile is a real smile. After Ted, you always have that look as though someone said, ‘Say Cheese.’”

  “I was older.”

  “You lost something. You started being careful.”

  She picked up the last one. “This was my engagement party.”

  They both studied the candid. “You don’t look like this is the happiest day of your life.”

  “I was, am, intimidated by Ted’s father. And all their stuffy friends. I was on my best behavior,” she admitted.

  “Why did you say yes to Ted?”

  She stacked the photos into a neat pile and returned them to him. He pushed them into the folder and shut t
hem away. For which she was grateful.

  “I think he made me feel safe,” she said sadly. “He’s big and handsome and took me to nice places, and I could see the path ahead of me. He was always a perfect gentleman. I liked that about him.” She shrugged. “I knew I’d never have to worry about money. I’m not going to pretend that wasn’t part of it.” But not a very big part.

  “He’s a catch, all right.”

  “Maybe I was just ready. I’m twenty-eight. I want kids. I don’t want to be one of those women who waits until she’s forty. I want my kids when I’m young enough to enjoy them. I thought he’d be a good father.” She thought about why she’d said yes some more, not that she hadn’t been obsessing about that very question since she’d broken off the engagement. “We never had a fight.”

  “Not one?”

  “No. If something was important enough to me, he usually gave in. And vice versa. My mom and dad used to fight all the time. It was so peaceful being in a relationship where there was no yelling.”

  “You haven’t said once that you loved him.”

  She glanced up at him. Nodded her had. “I know. I thought I did. But you’re right. I didn’t love him. Not really. Not enough. If I’d really loved him, I’d have handled the you-trying-to-seduce-me thing so much better.”

  “Yeah? What would you have done?”

  “I’d have sent the parents packing and sat down with Ted. If we’d loved each other, we could have worked it out.”

  “So, you’re saying...?”

  “I think you gave me the perfect excuse.” She sighed. “Or maybe everything was fine until that seamstress cursed the dress.”

  “What?”

  “Right. You don’t know about that.” So she told him about the curse.

  “Yeah, I’m sticking with the you didn’t love him. That works better for me than hocus pocus.” He pulled her against him. “What time’s your lesson?”

  “One-thirty.”

  He glanced at the clock. “Good. We’ve got time?”

  “Time for what?” But she knew.

  He kissed her until she was panting with desire, and then took her hand and led her into the bedroom.

  Chapter Twelve