I take a deep breath and knock.
Grant opens the door and gestures toward the elegant camel sofa. Soft winter sunlight filters through the frosted windowpane. A fragrant evergreen adorned with warm white lights glows in the corner where the tall floor lamp once stood.
“Welcome back,” he says, as we settle in across from one another—me on the sofa, him in his cognac leather armchair, legs crossed.
“Thanks,” I reply, already damp and distracted.
Grant is the epitome of polished masculinity. He keeps his dark, thick beard trimmed short and his chestnut waves carefully combed to the side with a precise part. Today he’s wearing taupe tapered slacks, immaculately pressed (as usual), with his mahogany leather boots. His deep burgundy sweater hugs his broad chest and accentuates his prominent biceps.
I lean back and slowly run my fingers across the soft, plush velvet. I wonder if a woman had chosen the decor. A quick, irrational pang of jealousy jolts through me.
“So how are things going?” he asks, with an air of formality.