Wife and Ex-Wife Ch. 01

She had to breathe several times before she could speak. "Yes, I came—that was very nice of you," she said sarcastically. "But it hurt! You shouldn't have done that without asking!" All of a sudden her eyes filled with tears.

Patrick was not insensitive to the turmoil coursing through her. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "Truly I'm sorry."

Nine grudgingly forgave him and allowed herself to be enfolded in his arms. She had to admit it was awfully nice to be held by someone who clearly cared for her. The feel of their naked bodies pressed against each other was something Nina had not experienced for a long time, and she was struck by how much she had unconsciously missed it. But as they clung to each other, she couldn't believe what she was sensing—that Patrick was getting hard once again.

Rather than having another outburst that could lead to an argument, she pulled herself away from him and said, "Maybe I should make some dinner for us." It was past 5:30, and Nina tended to dine early.

"You don't have to go to that trouble," Patrick said chivalrously.

"It's no trouble. I like to cook."

"So do I," he said not a little smugly.

"Do you?" she said, startled and pleased.

"Yes. But I was hoping we could go out somewhere."

"I'm too tired to go out." And whose fault is that, my good man? "Anyway, there's plenty of stuff here." Getting up abruptly, she said, "Come on. You can help me."

He remained in bed and said, "I don't want to wear my dirty clothes."

"Okay, fair enough," she said. She was momentarily flummoxed as to what she could use to dress Patrick with, and that allowed him to say:

"I could be naked."

"You could be what?"

"I could be naked. I hate wearing clothes."

She looked sternly down at him. "You are not going to go around my house naked." A sudden inspiration struck her. "Look, I'll put on my nightgown, and you can wear my robe." She pulled it from the closet—a dark blue terrycloth item. "This isn't too girly, is it?"

He looked at it dubiously. "I guess not."

"Okay, here." She tossed it in his general direction, then went to her dresser to fish out a long, frilly flannel nightgown that she slipped over her head.

Seeing him still unmoving, the robe now lying across his midsection, she said sharply, "Come on. You're not going to sit there like a pasha while I cook for you. If you're such a great chef, you have to help."

He finally got up and put the robe on, and not with very good grace. They shuffled into the kitchen.