Page 27 of The Marriage Blunder

There was a pause, and then another bubble, “I can forward the receipts if you want. For your records.”

I considered the correct reply, then decided to test the edge of the ice: “I don’t want a paper trail. I want a person.”

A minute passed, then, “I have to go into a meeting or I’ll be fired. More later.”

I watched the bubble vanish, but the warmth stayed. For the next hour, I let myself replay every word of the exchange. His humor, the rhythm of it, the subtlety in what was not said.

I realized, not for the first time, that this was what I’d missed for years—someone whose mind ran at a speed and angle that made every line a new thing to chase.

I was supposed to be on a quarterly review call at two.

I blew it off.

Instead, I stood in my kitchen, phone in hand, and smiled at nothing. I could feel the energy between us, sharp and alive, a current that hummed just under the surface of every interaction. I wanted to touch him again. I wanted the real thing, not the digital echo.

But for now, this was enough. For now, I was content to know that somewhere in Manhattan, Jude Thomas was counting the minutes, too.

I spent the late afternoon working, or something that could pass for it if you ignored the fact that all I did was open the same spreadsheet three times and then stare at my own reflection in the office windows.

By six, the city outside had taken on its evening armor—lights flickering on in a grid, taxis radiating out from the base of the building, the whole island sharpening into something harder than it had been at noon.

I retreated to the study: dark wood, leather chair, the slow curve of a whiskey glass in my hand. I let the noise of the city fade, then picked up the phone and dialed Lucas Kincaid.

If Miles was the man I trusted with problems, Lucas was the one I trusted with secrets. We’d known each other since our undergrad days—two of a kind, both stubborn, both a little too quick to treat life like a competition, but never at the cost of loyalty.

He answered on the second ring, his voice just tired enough to signal that he’d already outlasted three board meetings and was now settling in for the real work.

“Ken,” he said, stretching the word out. “You running for office, or just prepping for the next scandal?”

“Neither,” I said. “It’s personal.”

That got his attention. Lucas could be cold, but he was never unkind. “Go on.”

I gave him the short version. Las Vegas, Carolyn, the accident at the chapel. I didn’t bother to dress it up—I didn’t have to. He would see through it anyway.

He listened without interruption. When I finished, there was a silence at the other end, the kind that only happens between men who have run out of reasons to pretend.

“What’s the problem?” he asked, finally.

“Carolyn. The fallout.”

He snorted. “She’s already moved on. She’s probably booking the florist for round two as we speak.”

“Her friends aren’t going to see it that way. Neither is the press.”

He said, “Then you control the story.”

I waited.

He waited longer.

Finally, he asked, “Is this about the boy?”

I considered denying it, but what was the point? “Yes.”

I had to wonder how many people around me actually knew of my interest in Jude. Had I been that transparent?

“He good to you?”