Page 42 of A Love That Saved Us

My lawyer’s good too. He’s younger, one of Scarlett’s friends. But he had a great resume and was reasonably affordable. As affordable as a lawyer can be in New York.

I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how dry it is, and reach for the water again. My eyes flick to the door when I hear voices, my pulse picking up speed, body going tense. I fix my gaze on the condensation sliding down the glass bottle in front of me as the door opens.

I don’t look up. I can’t. A shaky breath fills my lungs, my eyes betraying me as they drift to the movement across from me.

To Jensen.

Holy shit. He looks good.Fitted navy chinos, a camel-colored belt, crisp white button-up—and goddamn confidence he wears better than cologne.

He flashes me a grin as he slides into his seat. “Hi, Al.” His dimples set deep, eyes locked on mine. They’re clear, bright, familiar—that deep ocean blue making it hard to look away. Making it hard to breathe.

My throat somehow gets even drier. I can hardly swallow. It’s like a desert in my mouth.

I am so screwed. Or, in Jensen’s words—I’m fucked.

His arms flex as he pulls himself up to the table, folding them in front of him, eyes still on me.

Oh my God.I knew he’d gotten in better shape—the polar plunge video—but I didn’t realize he’d gotten so much buffer.

Is buffer even a word?

I swallow, or attempt to. My heart’s fluttering so hard it feels like there’s a bird trapped in my chest.

“Hi,” I breathe out, eyes locked on his biceps, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut.Yep. Definitely buffer.

“It’s good to see you.” His voice is low, smooth, genuine. “You look beautiful.”

And you look hot as hell.

I reach for my water… again, my hand shaky, the glass cool against my palm. “Thank you,” I say, forcing my eyes away from him and to the mediator.

Cool. I can’t even act normal around my own husband.

Both lawyers greet Jensen, and he stands to shake each of their hands.

My attention derails the second I notice ink on one of his forearms.

What the hell? He got a tattoo?

His sleeves are rolled a few inches, and sure enough—definitely a tattoo.

My mind spins.What is it? How big? Are there more? What else is he hiding under that shirt, aside from the six pack?

I use this minute of polite pleasantries to study him, letting my eyes roam. Taking him in like it’s the first time. Like he did when we met, coming out of anesthesia, unable to keep his eyes off me.

My gaze lands on his face. Sharp jawline. Clear skin. Scruff. His hair’s longer now, messier.

My eyes drop to his mouth.

Dammit. Don’t look at his mouth. Don’t look at his mouth.

What is wrong with me?Is this what five months without sex does to a person? Or is this just… me missing him?

I’ve been so worried about seeing him. Bracing myself for this day. Replaying every possible scenario. Reminding myself why I left, why I have to follow through.

It was going to be hard enough, sitting across from the man I love to sign divorce papers.

But this? Tattoos. Muscles. That mouth.