Page 19

Eden

M y face is hot as we part ways, agreeing to text and meet up when we’re both done with our shopping.

I grab a basket and start filling it. Clothes, toiletries, makeup, and a backpack to shove it all into. I find a pair of slip-on sneaks that look like they might be marginally better for my feet than the sandals. I have no idea how much longer this trip will last, but I want to be prepared.

Underwear is my last stop.

I should buy a six-pack of serviceable white cotton bikinis.

Being practical will keep my head where it should be—not thinking about whether Rhys liked the look of my pale blue thong.

Or whether he has imagined activities involving the thong.

Twisting it to the side to make room for his tongue or, better yet, removing it wholesale with his teeth.

Clearly, I have imagined those things.

I set the Good Girl Undies back on their cardboard rack and turn toward a display of Bad Decision Panties.

These underthings are flimsy. Frothy.

They’re cheaply made and probably won’t last five washings.

They won’t feel nearly as comfy as the Good Girl Undies on a plane ride.

They’re pale pink and seafoam and bridal lace and fuck-me red. They’re thongs and cheeky bikinis and barely there I’m pretending to be practical but you can see everything through me boy shorts.

I want to buy one of each color, but I restrain myself and pick out five pairs because there’s a five-for sale and it would be foolish not to take advantage of it, right?

I’m not buying them for Rhys. I’m buying them because everyone knows that how you feel begins with what you wear next to your skin. I’m doing it because every woman deserves pretty things. I’m doing it because I was jilted yesterday, and I should feel beautiful.

Jilted yesterday.

Except I haven’t been thinking about Paul. I haven’t been sad or angry.

I’ve been enjoying myself too much.

You’re on the rebound, a voice says.

But what if I’m not ?

How could you not be?

There is an answer to that question. It’s been shoving at the back of my brain for the last twenty-four hours. And I haven’t wanted to look at it too closely, because I don’t like what it implies about me and my choices.

If I was never in love with Paul, that might be why it doesn’t hurt as much as it should.

I push it away again, and I resume choosing panties. I’m buying them because when Mari asks if I’m practicing self-care, I want to be able to say yes.

I pick out a robe—this time a practical one—and toss that into the basket on top of the undies.

I head to the front where I said I’d meet Rhys. He’s already at self-check, running his items through the scanner, and he says, “Bring that over here.”

“I can pay for my own stuff.”

“I owe you,” he says.

“Not anymore.”

We stare at each other for a moment. Then he says, “Thank you. But I’m still buying. It’s Teller’s money. I’ve been saving it for this moment. Wealth redistribution. I’m the Robin Hood of divorce attorneys.”

That makes me laugh. Still, I hold my basket closer to me, because it’s one thing to have bought Bad Decision Panties and to idly contemplate whether Rhys has an opinion about my underwear—and another to let him buy them for me.

“Come on. Let me at least pretend to make it up to you.” He grabs for the basket.

I yank it out of his reach, and the robe falls, dragging with it five pairs of Bad Decision Panties, all clinging lacily to the robe’s terry surface.

The whole collection is spread out on the floor like a cheap window display in a downtown adult-toy shop.

I crouch to retrieve my stuff, reaching for the red lace thong first—it’s so bright and garish and obvious , my bad decisions visible to Rhys and God and all the other shoppers—but my hand collides with something warm and strong. His hand.

He’s crouched, too, and both our fingers wrap around the red lace thong. Where they touch, there’s a fizz of heat energy so strong I can’t help looking at his face to see if he feels it, too.

Rhys slowly raises his gaze to mine. His eyes are blazing, and I can’t move for a second, because there’s no mistaking the way he’s looking at me. My whole body flares with need.

We’re both still holding the thong. I let it go like a hot potato, which is definitely the wrong move, because then there we are, squatting across from each other on the floor, my underwear in Rhys’s hand, that heat still in his eyes, and oh, God, whatever he’s thinking, I want it, too, I want it now.

My mouth is so dry, I desperately want to lick my lips. Don’t do it, don’t do it, I chant to myself, but of course instinct wins and I do it anyway. His gaze drops from my eyes to my mouth, and his pupils darken even more.

Abruptly he gets to his feet, grabbing the robe as he goes and depositing both it and my panties back into the basket.

“You should probably scan these yourself,” he says and thrusts the basket into my grasp.