Noah held the door open for me, saying, “Last chance to change your mind.” “Hardly. There are at least ten more opportunities to run out of here like my pants are on fire. This is just the first of the final chances.” “Not sure if that’s supposed to reassure me”—he shifted his hand to the exposed skin where the romper cut out, his fingers sliding beneath the fabric—“or make me hold on tighter.” This guy really needed to stop with all these comments. I was not built to withstand such things, especially not while our marriage was very fake and my attraction to him was becoming very real.
