Page 60 of Beauty and the Beach

“Mrs. Park,” I correct him without thinking.

A little smile twitches at his lips. “Of course. It is my belief that you andyour wifehave been in a committed relationship for many years.”

My jaw actually drops.

But Wyatt just nods and continues to smile; there’s even a bit of amusement in his expression, like he knows he’s upsetting me with how ridiculous he’s being. “Your love language is arguing. You take care of each other?—”

“Because I told Trev I would,” I say incredulously.

Another nod from Wyatt. “You did,” he says. “And you’ve been very faithful to that promise. But I suspect that even if you’d made no such vow, you would still be taking care of her, and she you.”

“She doesn’t take care of me,” I say with a snort.

“Look more closely,” Wyatt says, completely nonplussed. “I think you’ll find she does, and in ways you’re so used to you don’t even notice them.”

Into my mind pops the image of her handing me my bagof food in the honeymoon suite, my Cobb salad with extra crispy bacon; the image is replaced with her voice, weeks ago, telling me to buy some vegetables so I don’t get scurvy.

“Ridiculous,” I mutter, reaching for my throat to loosen my tie—only to realize I’m wearing a t-shirt.

“She’s the only woman you would have considered marrying, even if you won’t admit it”—I did admit it; toher—“and if she married another man, I’m very sure you would lose your mind.”

“That’s a bit of a stretch,” I say, but my voice is too defensive, and the memory of her smiling at Briggs earlier is too fresh. She teased me, taunted me, and I lied to her.

If she hugged someone else, danced with someone else, kissed someone else, I would be jealous.

Because she’s my wife,I tell myself.No one wants their wife to do those things with someone else. It’s wrong. That’s all.

“I don’t want to date her,” I say to Wyatt, leaning back in my chair. The leather squeaks, a sound that normally annoys me, but I’m not paying attention.

“I believe that,” he says. “I don’t think you want to date her.”

“Then what could you possibly be going on about?” I say, sighing.

“I don’t think you want to date her. Going out in public, taking her to dinner, going to the movies—I don’t think you like dating at all, no matter who the woman is. But I believe your heart has been ready and waiting to fall in love with her for a very long time. And if she gave the slightest indication that she wanted a life with you, you would be gone, just like that.” He shakes his head. “Dating wouldn’t be enough for you. You would want everything, always. You don’t do things by halves.”

The exact same thing I thought about Holland, not half an hour ago.

“I think this is good for the night,” I say, standing abruptly. I should have listened when he said I wasn’t ready for what he wanted to tell me.

Because he’s saying absurd things.

“Anything else can be left for tomorrow morning,” I go on. “We should get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

I see Wyatt look at me from the corner of my eye, but I don’t meet his gaze. I keep my attention fixed blindly on my desk, because I don’t want to see his expression—be it pity or disappointment or concern.

To my relief, he doesn’t insist on staying or continue to speak; he just stands up as well. “I’ll see you at seven, then,” he says in a completely normal voice.

“Sounds good,” I say.

Even after he leaves, though, I keep staring at my desk; once I’ve changed and gotten into bed, I stare at the ceiling.

I fall asleep to the faint sound of fireworks from the mainland.

When I wake up,it’s still dark outside, and something is wrong.

I flip my phone over to check the time; two-thirteen in the morning. Much like the night in the honeymoon suite, at first I can’t tell what’s woken me. I sit bolt upright in bed, my heart pounding, but nothing seems amiss in my room. Black comforter, white carpet, wood furniture, everything in its place.

Then I hear it, though: a sound coming from Holland’s room, low and ragged.

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