“You’re very likable.”

And see? That right there is another reminder to play it cool. I’m likable to her. I’m the fun guy. The man who won’t get attached. That’s why she said yes to playing my wife, and I need her to finish the show. We’re only in the first act of a three-act play.

I glance over at her white bureau. There’s a mirrored tray with a few charm necklaces—a Chrysler building, I think, and a Broadway sign. They’re ringed by perfume bottles. “Didn’t you write about perfume?” I ask, remembering that she had mentioned a blog at some point.

Her expression tightens, and she doesn’t meet my eyes. “I still do. From time to time.”

“What sorts of things do you say?”

She waves a hand airily. “This and that.”

She’s evasive, and that’s not like her. I arch an eyebrow as I run a hand along her hip. I should be Mr. Carefree and Casual, but I don’t want to let this topic go. “You don’t want to talk about it?”

“Let’s just say I put too much of myself in it, and I had to pull back. Make it more about the perfume and the scents.”

I run my hand down her thigh. “Was it too much of your life?”

She nods. “It was. I told stories that were too personal, that revealed too much of my heart.”

“So why do it at all?”

She sighs deeply. “I haven’t written a post in a while. I could shut it down, but I miss the camaraderie with my readers. I felt close to them, this random group of strangers who honestly weren’t strangers. I met Joy through a perfume forum back when she lived in the States, and now she’s one of my closest friends. But at the same time, I think pulling back, not writing as openly, was for the best. I feel safer.”

“Does that make you happy? Safety?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re happy with me. I make you feel safe.”

She shoots me a curious look. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve drawn your lines. I don’t cross them. That makes you feel safe, and safety makes you feel happy.”

She nibbles on one corner of her lips. “It’s funny that you brought this up, because I was thinking about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness today.”

“So American. And what did you think as you were musing on that?”

“I was remembering how my friend Veronica was going on and on about how incandescently happy she was after she banged this hot Danish boat captain in Copenhagen last year.”

I laugh. “Banging hot Danish men with British accents should totally make you ecstatic.”

“We should test this theory again. Just to be sure.” She runs a hand down my arm, and her voice turns more serious, contemplative. “You do make me feel safe. I need that. Thank you for doing that.”

A faraway look fills her eyes, and as I follow her gaze, I see her staring at the collection of bottles on her bureau. One of them is empty. My curiosity gets the better of me. “Why are you keeping that empty bottle?”

She closes her eyes and sighs, then rises, getting out of bed all rumpled and tousled. She walks to the bureau, plucks the crystal one, and takes it to the en suite bathroom. I lean near the edge of the bed so I can watch her through the open doorway. She drops it into the rubbish bin. It lands with a hard thud.

“Why did you do that?” I ask.

She stands in the doorway. “It was my wedding day perfume. I’ve needed to do that for a long time, Christian.”

A pinch of jealousy flares in me and the feeling surprises me and pisses me off. How on earth could I be jealous of her dead husband?

But the vicious truth whispers in my ear. I’m envious in some terrible way that she’s held on to him for so long.

She returns and sits next to me. “I needed to do that.”

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” I say coolly.

“I did it for me.” She tilts her head, takes my hand. “I don’t love him.”

I laugh lightly. “Good.”

What I mean is that’s fucking great.

“I want you to know that.”

That’s more than great. It’s perfect, and I do my best to keep a stoic face while inside I’m pumping a fist in victory. I’m so fucking happy she’s over him. This, right here, is the definition of happiness.

“Okay,” I say calmly, since letting on how much this knowledge thrills me might push her away.

“I’m not holding on to him. I need you to know that. I held on to the bottle because it was a gift from my blog readers.”

Ohhhh.

“The plot thickens,” I say playfully, since her response makes precisely the kind of sense I want it to make. Selfishly, I like her explanation a lot—her past is well and truly her past. “You weren’t ever holding on to something from him, then. You were holding on to something from people you miss having a connection with. You should reconnect with them.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

I grab her hand, looping my fingers through hers. Our rings touch. As I gaze at our joined hands, our metal connecting, I remember doing the same with Hannah. Holding the hand of my first wife nine years ago, did I feel the same with her as I do in this moment?

I loved Hannah. I don’t question that. But did I feel like this? This sort of unexpected awareness of the way a person affects you, deep in your body, far into your mind?

I feel like I could talk to Elise about anything. I never had that with Hannah.

“You do know I’m over Hannah, right? It was years ago, but still. In case you were wondering.” I need her to know there’s no competition from the past—no ghost, no poignant memory. “I don’t have baggage.”

“You do seem remarkably baggage-free,” she says with a smile. “But is being baggage-free your baggage?”

I shake my head. “If you’re asking if I’m tied to my single lifestyle or have some über-commitment to being a playboy, I’m sure Griffin would say yes —”

“Why on earth would Griffin say yes?”

“Oh, I used to tell him my dream was to become a kept man of some gorgeous, brilliant older woman.”

She smacks me. “You’re terrible. Preying on older women.”

I kiss her shoulder. “I can’t resist them.”