He turns his head, eyes dropping to the rug. "What's this?"
NoHiorHow was your day.He must hate it.
I recline in my chair, aiming for breezy. "Just testing it out. What do you think?"
He studies it, his face showing disapproval before he even speaks. "Not loving it, to be honest. Where did it come from?"
"Found it while cleaning. It's the one I brought back with Lucy from Marrakech."
"Oh." His tone's flat.
Richard's not a fan of my wild-child bestie Lucy. Now that I've "leveled up," I should use my access to the crème de la crème and not bother with someone so vulgar—his words, not mine.
"Speaking of purchases," he adds. "I spoke to your mother today."
I sit back up too fast. "Why do I feel like I'm in trouble?" I kind of joke, kind of don't.
"Not this time." He grins, amused by my sudden anxiety and loosens his tie. "Remember that bronze horse sculpture she admired at my parents' chalet last Christmas? I commissioned one for her. They'll deliver it next week."
"Richard! That's so sweet!" I rush to kiss him.
"I know." He flashes that self-pleased smirk, eyes drifting back to the rug. "Any particular reason for the redecorating?"
"No. Just felt like a change," I lie, bracing for him to tell me it doesn't fit our house but he just raises a dubious brow and disappears into the kitchen.
"Did you eat?" he asks, already rummaging in the jar of low-calorie cookies I bake him every weekend.
"Yeah," I lie again, realizing I haven't eaten all day. Again. Can't even remember the last time I felt actual hunger.
When I follow him, he's standing by the counter crunching a cookie, eyes glued to his phone.
I hate when he brings work home.
I get it, being an investment banker eats people alive, but I've asked him, more than once, to draw a line somewhere. Guess not.
"The dress came, by the way. For tonight." I lean against the kitchen island watching him from the side. "But you should give Jessica better tasks."
"I thought women would love to be paid for shopping?" He smirks but doesn't look up.
I smirk too. "Yeah, right. Poor girl's got an MBA from Stanford and shops for me like I'm a five-year-old."
He snorts a laugh into his phone and grabs another cookie, dismissing it.
"The dress is beautiful. Chanel. Black. But everyone's crazy about the cherry red now," I start and watch his face instantly sour.
"You know I hate red."
"It's trending."
"Still obnoxious."
I don't agree, but don't say anything, because there's no point.
"Any progress on the new book?" he asks, checking his e-mails.
Mentally, I flash back to what I wrote earlier.
The cheating narrative? Gone. Scratched the second my past moved above me.
