"Shit. Shit. Did he hear you?" she whispers urgently.
"I don't know. I'll call you back."
"Don't swim with sharks," she warns, sharp as a whip, and hangs up.
Forcing a smile, I stand up with the grace of someone hiding guilt in heels, and smooth my skirt with hands that aren't very steady.
When I cross the office and lean in to kiss him, he lets me, but doesn't kiss back.
"You're home early. You never come home before five."
"Had a business lunch nearby. Thought I'd surprise you," he says, his tone far too dry for the words.
I force a smile anyway. "When did you come?"
"Just now," he says, and walks into the kitchen while I follow him.
There, on the counter, is a bouquet of my Friday roses.
Richard's been buying them for me every week since we started dating, like clockwork. One of the sweet gestures that I love about him.
Only there's no grin today, no ritual flourish, just the abandoned flowers as he makes it to the open living room.
"Thank you, darling. How was your day?" I ask, reaching for a vase and watching the side of his face that looks pissed.
He's on the sofa, flipping through the news.
"Still working with Piper," he sighs. "Miserable bastard. Sucks the life out of me."
Oh. So maybe it isn't me but his work.
I put the vase on the table and sink onto the sofa next to him, rest my chin on his shoulder and try not to think about how strange his bone feels against mine. Too angular.
"I can believe that. That guy's a monster in a suit. Can't you back off?"
"No. I'm too deep. I already invested, and he's got leverage."
"What leverage?"
He studies me, like he's considering telling me, but I know he won't. He never does. Partly because I "wouldn't understand his world," which is true, and partly because he thinks he's protecting me and real men don't unload their burdens, which isn't true at all.
"There must be something you can do."
"Leave that up to me. I'm good at carrying the world on my shoulders." He turns off the TV, blows a long breath and peels off his jacket. Then he crosses to the window where our wedding photo hangs in its gilded frame.
Me in my mermaid-lace dress, him in his black House of Bijan suit—both of us wearing that kind of smile that says we chose each other and only each other for the rest of our lives.
My throat tightens as I stare at it.
He glances at his Rolex, and a faint smile spreads across his face.
"I don't have anything for the next three hours. Let's go grab some coffee. It's been a while since we went on a proper date."
I blink, not sure how I feel about it at first—my chest is a little too aware, my stomach beyond guilty, but in the end, I give him a small, polite smile.
"Sure."
?
