.

how she was going to struggle into and out of her clothes, but that was not a good thing for him to be imagining anyway.

       CHAPTER SIX

      JESSICA BOLTED THROUGH her bedroom and into the safety of her bathroom. She did not want Kade thinking about her bra, either!

      But the reality of her situation was now hitting home.

      Oh, there were practical realities. How was she going to manage all this? Not just dressing, which was going to be an inconvenience and a major challenge, but everything? How was she going to take a shower, and unpack boxes at Baby Boomer? How was she going to butter toast, for heaven’s sake?

      But all those practical realities were taking a backseat to the reality of how she had felt just now with Kade’s hand, his touch warm and strong and beautiful, on her neck, and then on her buttons.

      That was just chemistry, she warned herself. They had always had chemistry in abundance. Well, not always. The chemistry had been challenged when they—no, she—had wanted it to respond on cue.

      Still, it was easier to feel as if she could control the unexpected reality of Kade being in her home—their home—while she was comfortably locked in her bathroom.

      Just to prove her control, she locked the door. But as she heard the lock click, she was very aware that she could not lock out the danger she felt. It was inside herself. How did you lock that away?

      “Focus,” Jessica commanded herself. But life seemed suddenly very complicated, and she felt exhausted by the complications. She wanted out of her clothes and into her bed.

      She wanted her husband out of her house and she wanted the stirring of something that had slept for so long within her to go back to sleep!

      Even if it did make her feel alive in a way she had not felt alive in a long, long time. Not even the excitement and success of her business had made her feel like this, tingling with a primal awareness of what it was to be alive.

      Even the most exciting thing in her life—contemplating adopting a baby, and starting a family of her own—had never made her feel like this!

      “That’s a good thing,” she told herself, out loud. “This feeling is a drug, a powerful, potent, addicting drug that could wreck everything.”

      But what a beautiful way to have it wrecked, a horrible uncontrollable little voice deep inside her whined.

      “Everything okay in there?”

      “Yes, fine, thanks.” No, it wasn’t fine. Go away. I can’t think clearly with you here.

      “I thought I heard you mumbling. Are you sure you’re okay?”

      “I’m fine,” she called. She could hear a desperate edge in her own voice. Jessica was breathing hard, as if she had run a marathon.

      Annoyed with herself, she told herself to just focus on one thing at a time. That one thing right now was removing her blouse. By herself.

      Her nightie was hanging on the back of the bathroom door. She should not feel regret that the nightwear was mundane and not the least sexy. She should only be feeling thankful that it was sleeveless.

      For a whole year, she had not cared what her sleepwear looked like. As long as it was comfortable she hadn’t cared if it was frumpy, if it had all the sex appeal of a twenty-pound potato sack.

      For a whole year, she had told herself that not caring what she slept in, that not spending monstrous amounts of money on gorgeous lingerie, was a form of freedom. She had convinced herself it was one of the perks of the single life.

      “Focus on getting your blouse off!” she told herself.

      “Jessica?”

      “I’m okay.” She hoped he would not hear the edge in her voice. Of course, he did.

      “You don’t sound okay. I told you it was going to be more difficult than you thought.”

       What? Getting dressed? Or getting divorced?

      One of the things that was so annoying about Kade? He had an aggravating tendency to be right.

      “Focus,” Jessica commanded herself. She managed to shrug the blouse off both her shoulders, and peeled the sleeve off her left arm with her teeth. But when she tried to slide the newly slit sleeve over the cast, it bunched up around it, and refused to move.

      By now, Jessica was thoroughly sick of both Kade’s tendency to be right and the blouse. It wasn’t one of her favorites anymore. How was she going to ever wear it again without imagining his hands on the buttons?

      She tugged at it. Hard. It made a ripping sound. She liked that sound. She tugged at it harder.

      “Argh!” She had managed to hurt her arm.

      “Okay in there?”

      “Stop asking!”

      “Okay. There’s no need to get pissy about it!”

      She didn’t want him telling her what to get pissy about! That was why she needed to divorce him.

      She investigated the blouse. It was bunched up on the cast, and she had tugged at it so hard it was stuck there. She was afraid she was going to hurt her arm again trying to force it back off. Gentle prying was ineffectual. It refused to budge. The shoulder was too narrow to come down over the cast, and the fabric had ripped to the seams, but the seams held fast.

      “That will teach me to buy such good quality,” Jessica muttered, then waited for him to comment. Silence. One-handed, she opened every drawer in the bathroom looking for scissors. Naturally, there were none.

      She would just have to forge ahead. So with the blouse hanging off her one arm increasing her handicap substantially, and by twisting herself into pretzel-like configurations, she managed to get the tights off. And then the skirt. She was sweating profusely.

      Once the bra was off, she thought, it would be fairly simple to maneuver the nightgown over her head.

      She reached behind her with her left hand and the bra gave way with delightful ease. She stepped out of it and let it fall in the heap with her tights and skirt.

      The nightgown should be simple. If she left it hanging up as it was on the back of the bathroom door, she could just stick her head up under it, and it would practically put itself on. She grunted with satisfaction as she managed to get inside her nightie, put her left hand through the armhole and release it from its peg.

      The nightie settled around her like a burka, her head covered, her face out the neck hole. That was okay. This angle should be good for getting her right arm up through the right armhole.

      She tried to get her casted arm up. The nightie shifted up over her head as she found the right armhole and shoved. Of course, the blouse bunched around the cast prevented it from clearing the hole. It snagged on something.

      So she was stuck with her arms in the air, and her head inside her nightgown.

      She wiggled. Both arms. And her hips. Nothing happened.

      With her left hand, she tried to adjust the nightie. She tugged down the neckline. Now half her head was out, one eye free. She turned to the mirror and peered at herself with her one uncovered eye. Her nightgown was hopelessly caught in her blouse, and her arm was stuck over her head.

      And it hurt like the blazes.

      She plunked herself down on the toilet seat and wriggled this way and that. She was sweating again.

      There was a knock at the door.

      She went very still.

      “I made that list.”

      “Good,” she croaked.

      “Nothing on it I didn’t