Page 40 of Blind Prophet

“I see.”

Does she doubt me? Does she want to fight?

“I’ll fly you back in the morning. As planned,” I reiterate.

The teapot boils, and she goes to it. I rest my palms against the island, watching her closely. Her jeans are loose along the length of her legs, up to her shapely ass. Her light sweater hangs loose, skimming above her hips, mostly concealing her curves. Even in casual attire, she’s professional and polished because she’s here for business. I should follow her lead. God knows I’ve spent enough time in boardrooms to recognize when someone’s building up to a proposal. The Moore method: let them reveal their position first. Never show your hand until you have to.

She hasn’t asked about the divorce agreement, and I won’t be the one to broach the subject.

“Do you live here full-time?”

“These days, yes.”

“I would’ve never expected you to move to Colorado.”

That’s not a topic to discuss with her.Talk about her family.

“How are your parents?”

“You’ve already asked about them.”

So I have. But there is a question I haven’t yet asked.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“That’s not your business.”

That’s not a yes. Which means she’s not. That’s good. Don’t be a jackass. She’s not here to pick up where we left off.

My vision blurs, and I squeeze my eyes shut while kneading my temple. The migraine’s timing couldn’t be worse; I have a video call with the European Space Agency in six hours about orbital patterns for the new constellation launch.

Nausea circulates. The swift onslaught of symptoms is ominous.

“You’re still getting migraines?”

She remembers.

“Not the kind of thing to go away.”

“Are you eating gluten?”

My brow aches, and I press into the bone with my fingers, soothing the tight muscles with a circular motion. Shit. I’m probably overdue for Botox injections.

“Dorian? If you don’t take care?—”

“The gluten-free diet didn’t help.”

She’d been adamant it would. She’d been wrong.

“How long did you give it?”

“Years.”

“It’s hard to stay on a gluten-free diet.”

I exhale frustration. Of course, she believes it’s my fault. “I hired chefs. It wasn’t that hard. Simply didn’t help.”

Is it so hard to believe that all her new-age crap didn’t work?

---