Perfect Together by Kristen Ashley

But his house was just that awesome.

And if that was what he’d wanted (and I knew it was, he’d talked about it often enough), once the kids were all gone or close to it (say, now) I would have given it to him.

Which would cue Bea getting in my face about it, like she did anytime I “gave into” Remy.

This was all on my mind as I walked from my car to his front door and pressed the button for the doorbell.

It wasn’t a surprise when he opened it almost immediately.

And he did it with a face like thunder (again, no surprise).

Still, that face was unbelievable.

He was ridiculously attractive, had been when we met, and was even more so now.

Tall (six foot three). Built solid and bulky with thighs that could spawn their own religion. He had messy, dark, always overlong hair that now had threads of silver in it, and classic French male features. Strong, distinctive nose. Heavy brow. Thick eyebrows. Wide forehead. Perfectly formed mouth that had a tendency to rest in a delicious male pout or a distressingly outstanding smirk.

He was, as I stared up at him glowering down at me, cool.

That was Remy.

Cool.

Effortlessly so.

He was who Hugh Hefner wanted to be, standing there in his fabulous doorway with his distinctive home behind him wearing a pair of jeans that were soft as velvet (I knew because I’d washed them) and faded almost white. They hung loose but hinted at a superior ass (the hint was true) and could bunch in mysterious, delicious ways around a promising package (and it lived up to that promise).

Up top, a pale-yellow button-up shirt that opened to give a generous visual of a strong, tanned column of throat and the cut of his muscled collarbone and hung off his shoulders in a casual, “I don’t give a shit” way that was so attractive, you could taste it on your tongue.

His feet were bare, the front hems of his jeans draped over his ankles, and the back hems were raw ends because he’d been walking on them for years.

He was top-to-toe beautiful.

And he was no longer mine.

“You’re late,” he bit, his rich voice edged with barbs, like molasses tinged with serrano. “No fuckin’ surprise.”

“I’m sorry,” I replied. “I am. Yes. I’ve no excuse. But I truly am sorry.”

His head ticked with surprise at my response because I was always late, and I always had an excuse, and at our end, this always bugged him, the being-late part, and the excuse part.

Then his eyes narrowed.

“Have you been crying?”

Guess I should have allotted another minute to fixing my makeup.

“I’m good. I’m fine. I’m here. I really am sorry that—”

“Why have you been crying?”

There was no use denying I had. First, I couldn’t really hide it. Second, I knew this man, every inch of his body, every mood he could have, every expression that could pass over his face, all of it like the back of my hand.

He knew me the same.

So there was no point.

I locked eyes with him and said, “Honestly, Remy, I’m okay. But Sabre probably—”

“Why have you been crying, Wyn?”

“It really isn’t that big of a deal.”

Lie: I’m crying because I finally came to terms with the fact that we’re over.

“I’m good. Honestly.”

Lie: You were the love of my life and I let us fail.

“I’m okay now. Let’s do this with Sabre.”

Lie: I wasn’t. But I was determined I would be. Eventually.

He didn’t move out of the door to let me in.

“Remy—” I started.

“Why have you been crying, Wyn?”

It was an unexpected blow, but man, did it sock me right in the chest.

I drew in breath to recover from the warm concern in his tone, the soft worry on his face, the intense scrutiny of those caramel eyes.

I opened my mouth, and I had no idea what was about to come out, particularly since his gaze dropped to my lips, and I felt that familiar, lovely heat hit other parts of me when it did, before a call came from inside the house.

“Is it Wyn?”

Myrna.

I swallowed, closed my eyes, dropped my head, shifted my chin to the side and gave it a second before I opened my eyes and looked at Remy again.

Mistake.

Huge.

Because I just did all of that. And he’d just watched me do it.

Another expression was on his face now, and apparently, I’d lied before.

Because he was studying me in a way he never had.

Though the warmth and concern were not gone.

“Come in,” he murmured, finally stepping out of the way.

I tucked my clutch closer under my arm and stepped my Louboutin-shod foot over the threshold.

One thing my profession had insured I had not lost the ability to do: walk around in four-inch heels like they were sneakers.

And this was the only thing I had going for me when I looked down into the sunken living room and saw my children not there, so I moved right, toward the kitchen and family room that sat in the point of the L of the house to see my kids lounging there.

And to be confronted with Myrna in the kitchen.

Remy was six-three. Sabre was six-four. Yves was his dad’s exact height. Manon was five-eight.

I was five-nine.

Myrna was at most, five-four, probably more like five-three.

I knew everything about clothes, shoes, handbags, makeup and accessories, and every designer in the world (not exaggerating) sent me freebies. For my clients. And for me.