THE HAND JERRISON drapes over me when we enter the restaurant isn't protective. It's possessive. His eyes slide down my chest, the silk wrapped around my body, the bracelets on my wrist.
Perhaps I could have made it easier on him.
I could have thrown my hair into a ponytail, worn a mini-skirt and sneakers and called it a night. I could have chosen low heels instead of six- inch stilettos. I could have found a dress that left some room. Left some curves to the imagination.
But why should I dim the light that's bursting out of me?
I like this new Harriet. I like the way she's comfortable in her own skin.
Vivacious. Fearless.
It's who I was before I got married.
Why did I shun her just because of the ring on my finger?
"You look stunning," Jerrison leans down to whisper, "but you know what would look better?"
