The Weird Sisters - Eleanor Brown [100]
SIXTEEN
When Edward emerged from the shower, Bean was curled up on the bed reading. She had long ago given up being offended by men who compulsively showered after sex. It was an excellent time to get a little reading done without anyone trying to talk to her.
Edward plucked the book from her hands, his fingers making wet prints on the pulpy pages, a bead of water skidding down the front cover. Glancing at the back cover, he scoffed and tossed it aside. “So what have you been up to all day?”
“Working.”
Edward flopped onto the mattress, the towel loosening around his waist. The sheet had come loose during their exertions, and he slipped slightly on the silky bare mattress. Bean rescued her book just in time, folding back the corner that had bent when he dropped it. “What do you think about the two of us getting away for a little while? A long weekend?”
“I can’t. I have to work.”
He dropped his face onto his cupped hands for a moment. “Bianca, surely that disaster of a library can survive without you for a couple of days.”
Bean whacked him fairly sharply on the head with her book, rolling over and pulling the loose sheet over her bare skin. “I have loved that disaster of a library since I was old enough to read.”
“Fine, fine,” he said, lifting his hands in front of his face to ward off blows. “I’m sorry.” (He wasn’t.) “Let me begin again. Fair Bianca, I long to journey to the countryside with you for a few days. Can thy temple of learning spare thee?”
“No,” Bean said, and rolled onto her back, opening her book again. Edward slapped it away, and Bean huffed in frustration. “What do you want?”
“I want a romantic weekend away with a gorgeous woman.”
Bean’s eyes became small and mean. “Romantic? What exactly made you think I was interested in romance?”
“Every woman is.”
“Don’t be so stereotypical. There’s nothing romantic about this relationship, Edward. This is a cheap affair.”
He actually had the gall to look hurt, which made Bean feel sorry for him. But only for a moment.
“Is that what you think of me?” His skin was still pink from the shower, and he looked swollen and tired.
Bean sat up and yanked the sheet tighter around herself. “What do you expect, Edward? This is not the great love of the century. You are, if I may remind you, married to a pretty terrific woman with whom you have some pretty terrific children. This is sex.”
The hurt look stayed. Dear Lord, Bean thought. He’d had some image of himself as a dramatic hero, a scandalously talented older lover to her young(ish) ingenue, and she’d gone and shattered the dream—shattered him—by being honest. She reached out to touch his arm, but his face was already turning cruel.
“You ought to be grateful for this. You’re not exactly in your prime anymore, Bianca.” She touched under her chin, unconsciously testing the sag. He saw the weakness and smiled. “It’s not like you have any other offers going, do you?”
Bean flashed back to that night in the bar, the faces turning away from her when someone younger and prettier came in. But he didn’t know. She tilted her head, defiant. “Would you like to test that theory? I imagine only one of us would be sleeping alone.”
Edward bent his arm behind his head and leaned back. Normally, Bean might have curled onto his chest, felt him warm and solid beside her against the coldness inside her. But his face was arch and she felt stiff inside.
“Maybe we should end this,” he said, but she knew he was just trying to get her to come back to him, to apologize. She was suddenly tired, suddenly wanted to be home in her own bed, the sound of our breathing in the rooms around her.
She dropped the open book on