Forever My Love by Heather Graham

eat if she didn’t get him started, Kathy found the large frying pan and a cutting board. Brent managed to find some butter in the refrigerator, then the bread basket, and while she chopped peppers and mushrooms and onions, he cut slices of bread. As long as she was busy with the work before her, her eyes on her chopping, she thought she could manage a few queries.
    â€œSo tell me, Brent. How about you? Is Marla…just wonderful?”
    He made a grunting sound. “Marla isn’t anything at all,” he told her briefly.
    â€œWhoops. Trouble in paradise?” she asked sweetly.
    He cast her a glance. “Where are you getting your information?” he asked her. “If you’ve been reading those rag magazines, you should recall that they once had a story about the two of us breaking up because you were having an affair with an Arab prince.”
    She had to smile, the story had been so ridiculous. They had both laughed over it, wondered whether to sue or not. Then Brent’s lawyer had demanded a retraction and it had been given.
    Kathy tossed the peppers into a little glass bowl and started on the mushrooms. “No, I haven’t been reading rag magazines. I only read the front pages in the supermarket, and I try to refrain from reading about you at all.”
    â€œDo you?” he asked wickedly. “You mean you’re never just the slightest bit interested in what I’m up to?”
    â€œNope,” Kathy said, meeting his eyes, tossing a handful of mushrooms into the bowl.
    â€œAh, yes, that’s because you’re so involved with Mr. Fine.”
    â€œHe’s a very considerate man.”
    â€œThat must be exciting.”
    â€œNot as exciting as Marla Harrington, I’m sure.”
    He sipped his beer again and leaned over the counter, watching her. “So what do you know about Marla? And if you’re not interested, why do you know anything?”
    â€œWe share a child, remember?”
    â€œI see. So what did our shared child tell you?”
    â€œJust that she’s a twit,” Kathy said sweetly.
    â€œWhat makes you think I’m involved with the twit?” he asked.
    â€œWell, if you’re not involved with the twit, she’s involved with you. She was draped all over you like curtains in that video.”
    He started to laugh, straightening. She cast him a glance and nearly chopped off her fingertip. “It’s nice to see you still have claws!” he told her.
    â€œI haven’t,” she denied.
    â€œBut that sounds like such a jealous comment!”
    â€œIt’s not jealous at all. It’s just a comment.”
    â€œAnd you don’t read anything about me, but you did see the video.”
    â€œWhat did you want me to say to your daughter when she insisted that I come out to see it? She’s very proud of you, you know. And I’ve never discouraged that.”
    He was silent for a second, then she felt his eyes again, very warm upon her. “I know,” he said huskily.
    Again, it seemed that the space around them was too tight, that he was too close. She could smell a hint of his aftershave, feel the warmth of his body. It was so easy to let the years apart disappear, to pretend that this was like many a voyage they had taken, to imagine that she could drop what she was doing, forget the omelet, cry out and throw her arms around him, and damn everything else.
    â€œSo,” she said quickly, desperate to break the spell, “is it on or off with you and Marla?”
    â€œMarla? Not the twit?”
    â€œEven twits have names,” she said pleasantly.
    â€œIt was never on,” he said.
    â€œYou should tell that to Marla.”
    â€œI have.”
    â€œI think she’s in love with you.”
    â€œAll that from a video?” he demanded. “Are you sure you haven’t been reading rag magazines?”
    She smiled. “Women don’t drape that way unless they’re