Chapter 3 Keeping Control

(Calder)

Mia is barefoot, her shoes abandoned somewhere near the sofa.

I hear her laugh over the music. I’ve never come home to loud pop music before.

I step into the soft lighting of the dimmed downlights in the living area.

A wineglass hangs loosely from her fingers, tilted at a dangerous angle.

She sways with the music… not gracefully… just enough to keep herself upright by the looks of it.

“Mia,” I say.

She doesn’t hear me. Or she’s ignoring me because I’m late and clearly, she had prepared dinner.

“Mia.”

She turns again, eyes unfocused as they search the room. For a moment, her gaze slides past me.

I step forward again.

Her eyes find me properly this time. Recognition settles in, followed by surprise—then something else.

Relief, maybe. Or disbelief.

“You’re really here,” she says.

It isn’t a question.

“Yes,” I reply.

She stares at me for a long second, as if confirming I won’t disappear if she blinks.

“I thought you’d changed your mind... about… you know..”

“Work emergency. I should have messaged you. But I see you didn’t waste the wine.”

Then she smiles.

It isn’t the polite smile she wears at public events. It isn’t careful or restrained.

It’s careless. Open. Then she giggles. “You’re funny. I did not waste the wine.”

I take the glass from her hand and set it on the table. “Sorry I missed dinner.”

“But… you came home,” she says.

“I did.” I close the distance as she sways slightly on her feet. “I think you might be drunk.”

She nods. “A little.”

“You shouldn’t be standing,” I say. “You’re going to fall.”

“I won’t,” she says then immediately sways.

I catch her by instinct.

My arm goes around her shoulders, my other hand on her arm to steady her.

She stills.

So do I.

Her skin is warm beneath my palm.

She looks down at where I’m holding her, then back up at me, her expression suddenly intent.

“You always do that,” she says.

“Do what?”

“Make sure I don’t get hurt. Protect me.”

I guide her toward the bedroom. “I know.”

I’ve known her for a long time. Longer than the three years we’ve been married.

Since she was in college. Yara and I got engaged back then.

She resembles Yara in ways I try not to notice.

But Mia is a very different person.

Eight years younger than Yara. Eight years younger than me.

When everything collapsed, when she stepped into a marriage that was never meant for her, she didn’t feel like a wife.

She felt like someone I owed a lot to.

Someone I was responsible for.

Someone I needed to support in a situation she never chose.

Someone I promised myself I would never want.

She steps closer before I can step back.

“I decided something tonight,” she says. Her voice is steady, despite the alcohol.

“You should sit down,” I say.

She shakes her head.

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want things,” she continues. “Tired of acting like I’m fine with whatever’s left over.”

Her hands lift, hovering uncertainly between us, as if she isn’t sure where they’re allowed to go.

“I don’t know how to be brave with my feelings,” she admits. “I never have.”

She lets out a soft, humorless laugh. “But I don’t want to be scared to live anymore.”

She looks up at me.

Her hand settles against my chest.

The contact is light.

The effect is not.

Desire strikes without warning… fast, sharp, deeply unwelcome.

Not because of what she’s doing. Because of what I’m seeing.

Not a girl standing in her sister’s shadow.

Not someone fragile.

A woman deciding something for herself. Her eyes plead with mine to see her for the woman she is.

Even just once.

Before I can stop myself, I lean down. Her lips are warm on mine.

She freezes for half a heartbeat, then kisses me back… softly, instinctively.

The need hits me suddenly and ferociously.

I pull away. “No.”

She blinks, confusion flickering across her face. “Why?”

“Because you’re drunk,” I say firmly. “It shouldn’t be like that.”

This is what she wants. I know that. But I need to find a way to stall. I can tell it will only hurt her.

The others were a distraction from the woman I loved walking out on me. But I do care about Mia’s feelings.

She studies me for a moment, as if deciding whether to argue. Then she nods. “Okay.”

“We have a whole month for that.” She grins.

Oh Lord.

I exhale slowly and guide her toward the bedroom.

She leans into me as we walk, trusting, unguarded. I’m acutely aware of every step, every brush of her body against mine.

I help her change, keeping my movements precise, my gaze fixed anywhere but on the curve of her shoulders, the line of her back. The flare of her hips.

Her skin burns mine at every touch. Her sudden intake of breath when my fingers drift over her bare skin.

Her hand catches my sleeve.

“I only want this one month,” she says.

I don’t answer.

“After that,” she adds softly, “I won’t ask you for anything ever again.”

She’s asleep before I can respond.

I stand there longer than necessary.

I agreed to stay here in the master bedroom with her.

I undress to my briefs.

I lie down on the opposite side of the bed.

Careful. Deliberate. So as not to disturb her.

Just sleep tonight. I can hold back on the intimacy for now.

Even though I told her I would give her this month as my real wife. We’re two consenting adults. It’s just sex.

I have sex with other women and don’t get attached.

Within minutes, she turns towards me.

Her body curves to mine, seeking me without waking.

Her arm drapes across my chest, her forehead settling against my shoulder.

I go still.

Every instinct tells me to move. To go to the guest room.

I don’t.

Her breathing evens out, slow and steady, and she relaxes further, unconsciously trusting the space she’s taken.

I stare into the darkness, acutely aware of every place we touch.

Tonight I keep control.

I will not cross the line while she’s been drinking like this.

Still, as her fingers tighten faintly around my arm, one thought refuses to leave.

I chose to give her the month she wanted.

I shouldn’t have agreed to the month.