However, none of that will stop me from dressing up again, putting on that uniform for life and marching out there looking my best.
I wrap the towel around my body and move into the bedroom, slipping my mother's diamond pendant around my neck and then pausing in front of my closet. I decide to go with another jumpsuit—still sexy, but something with less … accessibility might be nice. If it takes more effort to get it off, then I'll have more time to talk myself out of it. Not that I'm going to need it, I tell myself as I pull the black V-neck off the hanger. In the few minutes it takes me to get dressed, dry my hair, and apply some minimal makeup, I really and truly believe that.
As soon as I step into the hallway, my Oxford blue peep-toe pumps hitting the floor with a clack, I see Gilleon and the entire argument goes completely out the window.
Oh shit, I think as I feel flames tickling my belly, my muscles tightening in anticipation of … of nothing because nothing else is going to happen between us.
“Regina,” he says, shirtless and beautiful, droplets of warm water clinging to his chest, just as fresh from the shower as I am. His tattoos end right at the shoulder in a swirl of darkness that begs for me to run my fingertips across the lines, trace each and every one to their source, to the raven, the fox, the sleek, svelte little feline that curls around his bicep. But there's nothing nice about this kitty cat, with its dark eyes and narrow pupils.
I force my gaze over to his left shoulder, to the angry red of the bullet wound—nothing sexy about that, right? Doesn't help. Damn it. I glance back at Gill's face.
“Gilleon,” I say, glad that my voice comes out the way I want it, strong and clear and lacking in any sort of emotion whatsoever. I refuse to play my cards first with this man.
“About earlier,” he says and my chest tightens, “when I said I wanted to go to dinner. I still do. Only … I think maybe you and I should go alone, so we can talk.”
“We do need to talk,” I say, my heartbeat picking up speed as I stand there and pretend that nothing is happening to me, nothing is changing inside. I'm afraid that everything is.
Gill smiles, his perfect mouth sliding to the side in an imitation of the wry grins he used to give me as a teen. His blue eyes are locked onto mine, searching me, trying to decide how I feel about all of this without a single word leaving my mouth.
I glance away as Solène opens her door and appears in the hallway, giving Gill's shirtless body a raised eyebrow before she looks over at me.
“I want to show you something, Regina. Quick, come look.” She retreats back into her room before I get a chance to respond, throwing a look Gill's way to judge his reaction. The sadness etched into his features makes my heart hurt. How different things would be if he'd never left. I remind myself that that was his choice to make.
I move down the hallway, past his door, hating the nearness of his half-naked body as my heels click across the wood.
“She's beautiful,” he whispers as I pass by, “just as beautiful as you.”
My skin ripples, his words brushing across them and drawing goose bumps, before I breeze past and slip into my daughter's room with a sigh. She glances back at me from her seat at the white writing desk in the corner, blue eyes wide and questioning.
“You certainly do fancy him, don't you?” she asks as I raise an eyebrow and come to stand next to her shoulder, surreptitiously leaning forward, pushing back the curtain, and glancing out the window to make sure she didn't have a clear view of Gill and me. I hate that I'm only thinking of this after the fact, but down there on that deck, I wasn't entirely in my right mind.
Thank God. The porch that wraps this side of the house blocks that portion of the deck. Solène would only have been able to see if she'd gone outside, and from the look of the locked French doors, the gray dreary weather out there, it's highly doubtful.
“Now why would you go and say that?” I ask as Solène shuffles some magazines around, pushing them away from the black drawing book that's sitting directly in front of her. I drop the curtain and shift back, tucking my hands in the front pockets of the jumpsuit and smiling innocently.
“Because you're always gazing at him,” she tells me matter-of-factly. “Oh, and sucking in deep breaths like this.” Solène gasps and then puts her hand to her chest, glancing at me and batting her eyelashes like I'm sure I never do. Unlike her and her dad, I don't have long curled lashes to bat. It'd take some serious mascara work—maybe even a fake set—to get mine to do that. “Just like all the women in the movies do when they're in love,” she continues, drawing a faint blush to my cheeks. I'm getting told by a nine year old. Isn't that great?