It’s only later, when I’m snuggled on the sofa with Malcolm, that regret truly starts to eat at me. I don’t want him to leave. It’s a purely selfish thought. If nothing else, he really does need to do some laundry. His wardrobe may be vast, but I suspect it’s reached its limit. And it’s not like I’ve never been on my own. I’ve become so used to having him here so quickly that the idea of giving him up for a night rankles.
“It’s like the good old days,” he says as if reading my thoughts. “Remember evening kisses?”
“It wasn’t that long ago.”
“I guess not.” He shifts and settles me closer. His hands come to rest on my arms. Somehow, he knows without looking where the scars are. With his fingertips, he strokes each one as if that might heal it. His warm nutmeg scent is laced with Kona blend
