Sex. I need sex.
All the green tea in the world doesn’t have the same effect on my roiling belly as a hard pounding from that impossible husband of mine.
I glance at my watch again. He didn’t say exactly what time he’d be home, but it’s after 7 p.m., and I’m sure he should be here by now.
Call him.
I grit my teeth. No fucking way I’m going to bethatgirl.
He’s your husband. Just call him.
I pace the room for five whole minutes, at war with myself.
Fucking call him!
“Goddammit!”
I’m beginning to hate the voice in my head. She’s a mush-hearted slut who’ll sell her soul for that damn man. And yet my finger is on the button, preparing to dial his number. I hit “call” and hear the dial tone ring through.
“Hey.” His voice makes my toes curl.
“Hey,” I say back, then fumble for words because I hadn’t thought this far ahead.
“You’ve got Raoul,” he continues. “You know what to do next.”
Motherfucker!
I’ve reached voicemail.
“Uh…hi!” I blurt. “It’s me. Um…Emma. Just checking in because…”Because why, Emma? And why tell him it’s you? He knows who you fucking are.“I was just…um, wondering…”Oh, Jesus, you’re being recorded, you nonce.“Look, if you’re going to be home late, just let yourself in. I’ll sleep in my old room, so you don’t wake me up,” I say in a rush, because fuck it, where is he, and why the hell isn’t he answering his phone? I end the call, stomp into the living room and slouch into a chair.
I spend the next few minutes glaring at the phone as if sheer force of will could get him to call back.
“Signora?”
I glance up to see Paolo at my side, holding a tray with a cup and a bottle of honey on one side. He sets it on the coffee table in front of me. I keep glaring, though not at him.
“Thank you,” I mutter, reaching for a steaming cup.
It’s not his damn fault.
But fuck it, my moods are all over the freaking place.
“Is there anything else you—” Paolo stops short as a sound buzzes from the intercom at the front door. “Mi scusi,” he says, moving silently away. I reach for my phone again, flipping past Raoul’s red-hot text message and scrolling through others I seem to have missed since I got back.
There’s one from my dad.
Glad you’re back, lass. Don’t fret. You’ll be out of this mess soon.
I frown at the cryptic words. More of this bullshit. He’s been doing it since the wedding.‘It’ll all be over before you know it.’ ‘Nobody will think twice if you’re a 20-year-old widow.’
It makes my chest feel tight. I know he’s planning something, and knowing my father, it can’t be good.
What the fuck is he up to?
I bite back bile and reach for my tea. I’ve barely taken a sip before Paolo returns, his features creased with concern.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, inadvertently rubbing a hand over my belly. Nausea has morphed into an annoying bloated feeling, and the tea isn’t helping. For God’s sake, if I have to pee one more time, I’m just going to do it here on the sofa.
