Under My Skin by Lisa Unger

Author:Lisa Unger [Unger, Lisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HQ Fiction
Published: 2018-09-24T07:00:00+00:00

16

I try to shake off the conversation with Merlinda, peer at myself in the bathroom mirror. Though I’ve made every effort to cover the circles under my eyes, I’m still looking pretty bad—gaunt, pale. Haunted, even. I’ve tied back my long black hair, am wearing the simple black sheath dress that is my go-to, a pair of black heels. It’s the best I can do. The phone is buzzing, vibrating on the sink below the mirror. Layla. She’s relentless.

This is a bad idea. Please don’t do this.

I made the mistake of telling her about my plans for the evening. I can never keep things from her. And she’s been texting me every quarter hour since. I ignore her.

I’ve thought about my night with Noah—more than once. A wash of guilt; it’s disloyal, isn’t it? Even though Jack is gone, I’m still his wife, still in love with him. Jack’s mother never remarried. And even though my parents weren’t exactly happy, my mother never remarried after my dad died. There’s only one real love in your life, Mom said mysteriously. I had a feeling she wasn’t talking about my dad. Was that true? Was there only one? Had I already loved enough?

The phone vibrates again with another text from Layla:

Which one was Noah? Is he hot? I think you said he was hot. Do NOT sleep with him. You’re not in a good place right now.

I finally text her back: Stop.

I can practically feel her fuming.

Fine. Do me a favor and don’t stagger into my lobby not remembering your own name.

Seriously? That’s what she’s going to write?

Wow. That’s a low blow.

Sorry. I’m just worried about you.

I stow the phone in my evening bag and give myself a final once-over.

A knock on the door. I take a deep breath before opening it. Layla’s right; this is a bad idea. But there he is, hands dug into his pockets. He’s bigger than I remember, broad and tall. There’s a scent—fire and linseed oil. Moments from our date come back, how he held the door, how he listened intently when I talked.

“Hey,” he says, leans in for a quick peck on the cheek. “You look—amazing.”

I know he’s just being kind, as I’ve recently just come from the mirror, where a washed out, frazzled woman stared back at me.

Still, my cheeks warm. “Thanks,” I say. “You, too.”

Triple black—shirt, jeans, boots. He runs a hand through those silky curls and his hazel eyes rest on me. There’s something, a magnetic draw, between us. But instead of moving closer, we stand awkwardly in the doorway a moment until I step aside to let him in.

“Nice place,” he says.

He follows me to the kitchen island, his gaze lingering on the boxes. It’s one of those details I guess, that wall of boxes with my husband’s name written over and over. If he’s intuitive, it probably screams: Hasn’t let go. Can’t let go. Head for the hills, dude.

“I didn’t have you pegged for a girl who wanted to go to clubs.

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