I sat up, wincing as the room spun. I was still in the oversized t-shirt I’d slept in, the one I’d stolen from the closet days ago when I got tired of wearing the same pair of pajamas.
“Come in.”
The door opened, and there he was, wearing a casual button-down, sleeves rolled up, and dark jeans. His hair was still damp, like he’d just stepped out of the shower.
He looked good.
Hell, he always looked good.
“You okay?” he asked, stepping inside. His eyes scanned me, taking in my rumpled appearance and the dark circles under my eyes.
“Hungover,” I muttered. “But fine.”
He walked closer, and I instinctively pulled the blanket up to my chest.
His gaze dropped, and I knew what he saw. My nipples pressed against the thin fabric of the shirt. No bra. Nothing between us but a few layers of cotton.
He reached out and gently pulled my hands away. His fingers were warm against my skin, and I felt a jolt of heat crawl up my arms.
“Don’t,” he said softly. “You don’t have to hide from me.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but he was already stepping back.
“I’m taking you to brunch. There’s a place downtown that makes the best pancakes you’ve ever had.”
I blinked. “Pancakes?”
“With whipped cream, strawberries, and enough syrup to put you in a coma.” A hint of a smile played on his lips. “Hair of the dog, right?”
The thought of pancakes—real, fluffy, syrupy pancakes—made my stomach growl.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “Give me ten minutes to get ready.”
He nodded and left me to get ready.
I padded over to the closet, questioning what was even appropriate for a hangover brunch with a very wealthy, older husband. Even now, days after I’d first seen it, I still couldn’t believe it was real. The day after the official craziest day of my life, I came home from work and the room was different.
There were clothes and bags everywhere. Dresses hung in neat rows. Blouses folded on shelves. Jeans, skirts, jackets, and shoes—so many shoes, from sneakers to heels to boots. Designer bags lined the top shelf, the kind I’d only seen in magazines. Perfume bottles glimmered on the vanity. Jewelry sat nestled in velvet boxes.
I’d stood in the doorway, frozen, my mouth hanging open opening a small, white, propped against a bottle of Chanel.
My wife deserves the best. - L
Just that.
No apology, no explanation, just a statement of fact.
My wife deserves the best.
I’d furiously shoved it all into the closet and slammed the door. I’d wanted to call him and scream at him for trying to buy me. For thinking he could fix everything with money. For treating me like a doll he could dress up and display.
Instead, I’d fired off a one-line text: Thanks.
And then I’d ignored the closet for days.
But now, standing here, hungover and tired and wearing the same five outfits I’d brought in my suitcase—plus the pajamas I’d bought at Target—I couldn’t help but feel a wave of gratitude.
I had nothing.
