He needed to start the stove. “Would you like a pair of sweats until I can get a fire going?”
“That’d be great.”
He tossed her the clothes, then told himself to get busy. But he couldn’t help lingering to watch her dress.
“What?” she asked, smiling.
His clothes almost swallowed her. They would’ve fit Pam a lot better. She’d been nearly six feet tall, only three inches shorter than he was. But he actually preferred the look of Jasmine in his sweats—which made him regret letting her wear them.
“I just wanted to…” the past intruded, destroying the euphoria of a moment before and overwhelming him with guilt “…thank you,” he finished.
“For what?” she asked in surprise.
Now cold and empty inside, he forced a smile. “For this morning.”
She eyed him, suddenly leery. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I should. That was the best f**k I’ve had in years.”
Her expression changed, grew shuttered. He’d taken what she’d given him, what amounted to the most incredible two hours of his life since Pam died, and thrown it in the dirt. He supposed that, subconsciously, he’d been trying to remind himself that she wasn’t Pam, that she would never be Pam. And he hated her for being able to satisfy him in a way only Pam could satisfy him before.
But he instantly cursed himself for lashing out. He knew it had everything to do with him and nothing to do with her, one of those things the psychologist had told him he did to ruin his own happiness. Except this time he’d ruined someone else’s, too.
An artificial smile replaced the sincere response of a moment before. “Yeah, well, that’s what they all say.”
She was trying to shrug it off, to pretend she didn’t care that he hadn’t valued what they’d shared. But he saw how quickly she folded her arms over her chest, how desperately she wanted to hide herself from his view. Until just now, she’d been completely trusting, warm—and he’d made her pay for it.
Shoving a frustrated hand through his tousled hair, he searched for the words to undo what he’d done. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it.”
She held up a hand to stop him. “No need to explain. I understand.
Meaningless is meaningless, right?”
Chapter 13
Jasmine couldn’t wait to get out of Romain’s house. She’d known better than to get involved with him, but she’d never expected him to make her feel so cheap.
Actually, she was more embarrassed than offended—because their lovemaking had been special to her.
God, she was an idiot. She generally had a good head on her shoulders, lived a cautious life, avoided anything that might be awkward later. How had she stumbled into this?
She hadn’t been herself yesterday. She’d been through too much, must not’ve been thinking straight. Let it go. Forget it.
After a mostly silent meal, Romain forked up the last of his French toast and looked at her. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Why?” She added more sugar to her coffee. Thanks to the potbellied stove, the house was growing warm. Had she been less eager to escape his company, she would’ve enjoyed the morning. The primitive but comfortable house. The isolation.
Even the surrounding bayou. For the first time, she could see the peace and beauty of this place.
“I’m curious.”
She took a sip of her coffee. “What do you want to know?”
“Have you ever been married?”
She briefly considered whether or not she wanted to tell him but figured it didn’t matter. After the next few minutes, she’d never see him again. “Once.”
“So Stratford was your married name?”
“No, it was a short marriage. I went back to my maiden name.”
“How short?”
“Two years.”
“Why?”
“We were too different. It just didn’t work out.”
“No kids?”
She hesitated. Why was he trying to get to know her now? As far as she was concerned, it was a waste of time. “Does it matter?” she asked.
“That’s too personal a question?”
“I have a steady boyfriend and a couple of kids waiting for me at home,” she lied.
He gave her a wry glance over his coffee cup. “You wouldn’t cheat on him.”
“And I wouldn’t be here at Christmas if I had kids. So I guess you could’ve answered both questions yourself.”
“Not even for your sister?” he said.
She cut off another bite of French toast and pushed it around in the syrup. “Not for anyone.”
“Didn’t you and your husband want a child?”
“My husband was infertile. Or—” she caught herself, realizing that wasn’t fair to Harvey because she didn’t know for sure “—maybe it was me.”
“There are tests for that sort of thing.”
“We weren’t together long enough to pursue it. But he was married three times before and had no children, so I’m thinking there’s a good chance it’s not me.”
Romain had been leaning back in his chair, watching her as she attempted to finish her breakfast. When he heard this, his chair thumped as it hit the floor. “Your ex was married three times before you?”
Fairly certain she was getting a headache, Jasmine rubbed a finger over her left temple. “He was a bit older.”
“What’s a bit?”
“Thirty years.”
His jaw dropped. “Holy hell! How old were you when you married him?”
“Twenty.” She raised a hand to forestall his reaction. “But he wasn’t wealthy by any stretch, so don’t imagine I’m some kind of gold digger.”
“You married for love?”
No. But it seemed unkind to simply admit it. “In ways,” she finally said.
“That’s hardly what I’d call an unequivocal answer.”
She didn’t have to give him an answer at all, but it was as pointless to refuse as it was to finish the conversation, so she remained polite. “I was completely screwed up. He turned me around.” She shrugged. “I owed him a lot.”
“So you decided to thank him with ‘I do’?”
As famished as Jasmine had been when Romain first mentioned breakfast, she found she couldn’t get through more than half of her pain perdu. It tasted great but kept getting stuck in her throat. Giving up on the meal, she pushed her plate away. “It happens.”