Jolting into a sitting position with a gasp, heart pounding, I blink in the dim light and confirm that Armani isn’t in the bed. In fact, the pillow beside mine is smooth and untouched, making it clear that he never went to bed at all. At least, not with me.
I rub my hands over my eyes, reality slowly sinking in. It was just a dream. A frustrating sex dream—one thatdidn’t even get me off—about the man I’m still incredibly pissed at.
After Armani had banished me from his “meeting” last night, I had nursed my cocktail on the upper deck alone, angry and panicking that my husband might be planning to loan me out to one of his associates like chattel. Just as the sun started to set in a blaze of glory, a steward had appeared and politely but forcefully steered me to my quarters. When I got to the modestly sized but handsomely appointed room, I found a sumptuous meal of braised fish and vegetables in a harissa marinade was waiting for me on a tray. Along with a single set of cutlery.
“Dinner on a boat,”Armani had said. Not technically a lie, was it? How infuriating. As if he wasn’t showing the ugliness of his true colors enough.
Still, I was starving. I fell on the food and then realized how exhausted I still was from the long flight and my lack of sleep, so I’d changed into my nightie and climbed into bed. The last thing I remember is staring up at the ceiling, my thoughts in a knot as music and the intermittent smell of cigar smoke rose from the deck below. I wonder if everyone is still down there now, doing God knows what.
Pulling back the curtain, I glance out the small port window and realize we’re not moving. We must have docked at some point in the night. Sunrise dances over the crystalline water, the sky streaked with pastel colors, still shaking off the cool blue of pre-dawn. It’s early, but I have no idea how early.
I look around, but I don’t see any alarm clocks or even electronics with digital numbers to tell me what the hour is. I also find no evidence that Armani even set foot inside this room at any point last night, not even to grab his leather duffle bag. My lips tingle as I realize that, if he didn’t come to me last night, he’s probably withher. Esme. And, who knows, maybe a few other women thrown in for good measure.
Kicking back the sheets, I pull off my stupid, pointless lingerie ensemble and slip into the designer sundress that I packed. Then I slip on my sandals and go looking for my husband. I am fully prepared to find him in the card room, drunk and draped in women, but it’s empty in there now. My stomach sinks. That means he did go to bed last night. Likely with company. And I certainly can’t go around knocking on the other bedroom doors and asking if anyone has seen my wayward husband.
What a damn hypocrite.
Not that Armani ever promised to care about me. No, that’s not the type of relationship we have. But heissupposed to be presenting himself as a united front with me when we’re around others. Does he seriously expect me to play the doting, loving wife while he runs around acting like a horny frat boy who can’t keep it in his pants? I am well aware that our marriage is a fake one, but to think that he actually spent the first night of our honeymoon with other women hurts me on a level I never thought possible.
Gathering my composure, I head up to the sundeck for some fresh air. It’s claustrophobic down here, and the sick pang of jealousy and rejection in my gut is making me feel even worse.
But once I’m topside, the scent of strong coffee and bacon hits me full-on. I guess it’s not too early for the crew to be preparing breakfast, though judging by the fact that it’s virtually silent up here, I assume I’ll be eating alone. The other guests are probably still sleeping off their hangovers, or maybe they’ve already left the yacht and headed back to wherever the hell they came from. Well, good riddance.
Following my nose, I pass the lounge area, the galley kitchen, and end up in an airy dining room with its panoramic folding glass doors pulled fully open to admit the sea breeze. But I skid to a stop when the man sitting alone at one of the round bistro tables turns to look at me.
“Armani,” I say tersely, prowling over to him like a jungle cat stalking its prey.
The first thing I notice is that he’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday. They look a bit rumpled, but not necessarily as wrinkled as they’d be after spending all night crumpled on someone else’s floor. Although I guess that proves nothing—Armani is just as likely to fold his clothes neatly over a chair before sex as he is to fling them across a room in a heady moment of passion.
The second thing I notice is that the table is set for two. He’s already eating, but the other place setting is waiting with several silver-domed dishes beside an untouched set of silverware and a large plate with a teal, orange, and yellow Moroccan design. How quaint.
I slice a hand toward the breakfast setting. “Which bitch is this for?”
Armani smiles and raises his coffee cup to me. “The one standing in front of me.”
“Cute,” I say with a glare. I’m not even sure I believe him.
After dropping into the empty chair, I remove the domes and assess the breakfast items on offer. And, wow. Fried eggs with crispy edges, dusted with paprika and herbs; steaming bread of many varieties; flaky pastries I can’t identify; yogurt drizzled with honey and pistachios and pomegranate seeds; little dishes of dried apricots and olives and figs as well as sliced fresh fruit; golden pancakes topped with—rose petals?
“Who’s going to eat all of this?” I ask incredulously. “This could feed half a dozen people.”
Still half expecting the ho squad to show up, I glance over my shoulder, but we’re still alone.
“I didn’t know what you’d want, so I ordered one of everything,” he says.
Admittedly, I thaw just a tiny bit.
“Fine,” I say. “Whoever this is really for, I’m taking it.”
I help myself to the food, taking a bit of each item because it all looks so delicious. As I’m serving myself, a steward comes over with carafes of sweet mint tea and hot coffee. I take a cup of each and then tuck in to the culinary wonders spread before me.
“These are hands down the best pancakes I’ve ever had,” I admit to Armani between bites.
They’ve got these delightful little air bubbles in them that are perfect for soaking up the melted butter and honey on top.
“I knew you’d love them. They’re called baghrir,” Armani tells me with a self-satisfied smirk.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I say peevishly, just to be contrary.
