A narrow strip of pale skin circled the base of his left ring finger.
The rest of his hand was deeply tanned from his weekend fishing trip, making the white band impossible to miss.
I lowered my fork.
“Mark, what’s that on your hand?”
He glanced at me.
Then he followed my gaze.
For one brief second, he froze.
I’ve been married to Mark Ellison for twenty-six years. I know the way his face changes when he’s tired, worried, amused, or trying to hide disappointment.
But I’d never seen that particular expression.
His eyes widened.
His shoulders stiffened.
And then, almost immediately, he forced a laugh.
“Oh, that?”
He turned his hand over as though the mark had just appeared.
“Probably from fishing. I held that rod for practically three days.”
I stared at him.
“Your fishing rod left a perfect circle around your ring finger?”
