About 5’5”, stocky but not fat, with pressed chinos and a button-down shirt like he just walked out of some law firm that only people with trust funds can afford. His hair is neatly combed, glasses perched on his nose, and his vibe screams estate planner with an ego problem.
“Yes?” he asks, with an eyebrow raised like I’m selling solar panels.
I blink, take a step back, double-check the house number. Still hers. Or what should’ve been hers. I take off my sunglasses slowly, because something doesn’t add up.
“Sorry. Must’ve gotten the wrong place,” I mutter. “I’m looking for Amanda Shirley.”
His eyes widen a fraction.
Then he laughs.
Wait—laughs?
“Nate?” he says with a kind of giddy familiarity that makes the hairs on my neck prickle.
I cock a brow, stiff. “Yeah?”
He beams like we’re best friends who did shots together at a college reunion. “Hey, man! So happy to finally meet you.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m Gabe. Come on in.”
I stare at the hand. Tanned forearms, manicured nails, a subtle designer watch. This guy doesn’t scream ‘Amanda’s type’ in any way I imagined.
Still, my body moves on instinct. Soldier reflex. I follow.
Big mistake.
The second I walk in, I don’t have to ask any questions. The answers slap me in the face like a belt to the cheek.
There’s pictures everywhere. Beach trips. One in Singapore. One in Auckland with the sky tower behind them. A few selfies, messy hair and warm smiles. Then one framed prominently in the hallway.
Wedding photo.
My jaw tightens.
“Amanda will be so thrilled to finally hug you,” Gabe says, completely oblivious to the sound of my heart slamming against my ribs like a fucking battering ram. “She can’t stop talking about you.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. My brain is buffering.
This isn’t disappointment. It’s not even betrayal.
This is what the actual fuck.
I walk slower, like the floor might collapse under me. My eyes keep darting to the images, like maybe if I blink enough they’ll vanish.
“She’s—uh—she’s talked about me?” I ask, careful with every word.
He laughs again, like this is some inside joke I missed the punchline to. “Of course, man. She said you’ve got this rugged, broody thing going on. I get it now.”
I grunt. “How long have you two been married?” I haven’t seen it in her records, not that I truly had a round check on her.
“Almost five years but it’s not, like, officially official,” he says proudly, like that’s a good thing to tell the guy your wife’s been sexting for the last two months. “I can tell why she’s into you.”
My stomach drops. “And that doesn’t bother you?”
“Why should it?” he replies with a cocked brow, totally unfazed. “We’ve been looking for a while for someone to join us.”
A long pause.
Then it’s when I get it.
