He’s said it like an incantation, and his eyes, when they finally land on mine, aren’t cold at all. They’re warm as candles, wide and plaintive and unblinking. He could be kneeling before me in prayer. In desperate awe.

The thought of Matthew Clare kneeling close to me, expectant, his head tilted, lips parted. Jesus, what an image. Every cell in my body is suddenly bubbling.

He is much more dangerous than I knew.

I’ve mulled it for years, and I was wrong, and why have I kept mulling it? I think of him when he’s not around, wondering, replaying odd glances, looking for answers. When he’s near me, it’s fraught, but worse somehow after he leaves. I watch him from the corner of my eye when we pass each other. Turn and watch his back as he keeps going. I’ve always told myself it’s because I’m wary of him, but wary is very different from aware.

I’d wanted to know his opinion of me, and some part of me must have wanted this to be the answer.

I’m horrible. I’m thrilled.

“Okay,” I say.

He laughs again, but this time, it’s defeated. There’s a note of finality in it. “Right. Well. That’s that.”

In mutual silent decision, we walk on, he ahead, me behind, my eyes trained on the curved pediment above the house’s tall front doors. Even forcibly holding him in my periphery, I am aware of every step Matthew takes, the cadence of it, the swing of his legs.

I have a strange sense of vertigo, of the world tilting beneath me, as we walk.

I felt this same sensation seven years ago when I met Hugh and figured it was just excitement coupled with the rocking of the ocean liner. I was physically pulled to Hugh the night we met, in the booth of that jewel-dark lounge, in his suite, as he strode up behind me and I knew exactly what we would do next. I felt like I was sliding off the edge of the world. Only in hindsight did I realize it wasn’t the ship giving me that feeling. It was my body knowing before I did that everything was about to change.

Matthew’s different from Hugh, so different. My husband is smooth, and he’s jagged. Cool and hot. Stone and wood.

And I’m just a flimsy flower bending with the breeze. Enough.

At the lawn, I reach out to Matthew, just a quick gesture to pause him, but he stares at my hand, and I glance back at the house, hoping no one saw.

“Let’s have the dinner,” I say.

He nods, then squints. Digs at the gravel with the ball of his boot before looking up. “You asked about Andy Blanchard.”

“Oh.” I blink. “Yes.”