1. One #2
His lips land on mine almost roughly. Hands grazing my cheeks, our familiar tangle deepens in a breath.
Major tongue action has me tugging him closer by the shoulders, desperate for more of him.
His hands travel down my backside, squeezing my ass before lifting me up and, pressed against him, I realize I’m trembling for him.
Fucking trembling.
I’ve learned many things about being married to Ben Wright—for one, this never gets old.
I do whatever feels right (and it always feels right), but Ben is a sex practician.
He turns me on in a blink, like a skill he’s honed as we’ve been together.
Hell, more than once, he’s reduced me to mush with only a coy look from across the room.
The slightest upturn of his lips and the laser focus of his gorgeous green eyes are enough to make me go wild and attack him with tongue-laced kisses.
And this will have me tingling the rest of the day. How will I serve customers under these conditions, all flushed, blushing, and trembling with hot Ben aftershocks sure to come?
I tuck that in my worries-for-later file.
Why don’t we start every day this way? I can’t remember the last time we were together. Small things pile up between then and now, stretching and confusing my memory. Has it been that long?
That’s another thing I’ve learned about marriage—the longer it is, the more you lose that beautiful urgency that once had you racing to the bedroom. Or you’re too busy and tired to entertain it.
A soft moan escapes me when he sets me against the spinning washer and yanks off my shirt.
My fingers rake through his short blond hair while his mouth slips warmly over my chilled skin.
He nibbles my collarbone and grazes my shoulder.
I love the feel of his stubble scraping down my neck and the familiar way his fingers knead my back, rough and delicate at once.
He’s about to peel off my bra when the wash cycle ends, interrupting our fun times with an annoying buzz.
He sighs and rests his head against my chest. Then, with a swift move that flexes all his incredible chest muscles, he scoots me against him, lifts me off the machine, and carries me out of the laundry room.
“What’re you doing?”
“Taking you to bed.”
Crossing the living room, my to-do list screams, taking center stage in my head. “Um, I don’t have much time.” Or any, if I’m honest.
Ben stops abruptly, his intent gaze diving into me and reading my contemplation. “I’ll help with setup. Please, Lena. Just stay.”
The soft desperation in his eyes fills me with love and worry in a breath as if one can’t exist without the other.
I’m about to agree—to give him a wild, wet kiss while mumbling for him to “take me to bed” in a dramatic, soap opera fashion.
But as I quickly reshuffle my mental schedule, I glance at the oven’s digital clock.
He stiffens. “Damn it, Lauren.”
I gawk at him, breathless and devastated. His grip loosens, and my feet land gently on the cold wood floor.
“What? What did you say?” The words sputter out like I’m choking, but I know exactly what he said— Lauren . I sign my question, too, in case he can’t hear me.
He looks frustrated and perplexed, as if I’m the puzzle here. His eyes drift from me to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” he manages.
“Who the fuck is Lauren?” I demand stronger now with words and hands.
“No one. It’s nothing. It’s work-related. Don’t read into it.” He’s calm, but irritation pools around his edges like a headache he’s trying to thwart with all his mental energy. “I have a lot on my mind.”
I bristle. “Yeah, someone named Lauren. How can I not read into it?”
“Because I love you, and you trust me.” He runs a hand through his short hair and shrugs. “It was an accident. That’s all.”
Stunned, I stand there like he’s turned me to stone.
I trust him—he’s not the cheating type. But saying another woman’s name mid-seduction ranks high on the list of things a spouse should never, ever do.
It’s worse than forgetting a birthday or leaving the seat up.
This offense falls uncomfortably close to marriage’s cardinal sins—lying, stealing, manipulating, adultery. It feels too egregious to ignore.
I blink as tears fall out, and all of a sudden, I can’t fucking breathe.
Lauren . That it eased from his lips so naturally—lips that I claim as mine—shakes me to my core and instigates my anxiety.
I haven’t had a panic attack in years, and here I am, heart racing, fingers trembling, mouth going dry, and stomach twisting into tight knots.
The sleeping predator inside me awakes with renewed vigor, uncaged and ready to pounce.
“Breathe,” he says, and I obey in long, slow breaths. Ben sighs and locks eyes in that sincere, stern way he does that says he’ll only say the next thing once. “I swear, it’s nothing.”
My eyes fix on his as he says it, though his hands move, too. Using American Sign Language is standard practice in our household, even when we speak audibly. Ben’s hearing loss will eventually become profound, so it’s good practice. Communication is a struggle for us, anyway—using both helps.
Now, it emphasizes his words like bold text in capital letters.
I believe him, I think , though my anxiety bitches don’t. Cherry has filled my head with stories about her philandering ex-husband. She heard, “I swear it’s nothing,” for years before finally figuring him out. Similar stories float around the café all the time when the ladies gossip.
It happens, and sometimes, to the best couples.
But this is Ben. The love of my life, Ruthie’s dad, and my sweet husband.
Under the sprawling pondside oak tree, the man who rarely shows emotion told me, “I do,” with happy tears in his eyes.
I still feel his gentle kisses on my forehead and his strong hand enveloping mine when I was in labor.
If not for him, Saddletree would’ve been a lost dream, and my family’s home reduced to farmland.
He got me through my mom’s death, joblessness, and the pandemic—I honestly don’t know where I’d be without him.
Probably in my brother Lucas’s Malibu pool house, living a half-life, dependent and miserable.
Ben and I bonded over our brokenness, and we’ve healed and strengthened each other ever since. He’d never jeopardize us, our beautiful love and history, for whoever Lauren is or anyone else.
Still, alarm bells ring in my head. Something’s amiss and has been for a while.
But with Ben, finding out the problem isn’t as easy as asking. He never says ten words when three will do and rarely volunteers that many, regardless. He keeps things close to the chest—a trait that’s served him well in his military and law enforcement careers.
Silence isn’t an asset in a relationship, though—it’s a curse.
It’s especially awful for me because I am a talker. Open conversations are the butter on my bread. The sugar that activates my yeast. Without information, I resort to worst-case thinking, and that’s never good.
When we first got to know each other, I battled for more words from Ben with a simple question: what are you thinking? It became a rule between us to ask each other that and answer honestly.
But, when I ask him now, “What are you thinking?” he hesitates.
Why is he hesitating?
He shifts on his feet before folding his bulky arms over his scarred chest, and his words emerge choppily and broken, like I’m a stranger. “You’re always in a million places, but never with me. I miss us.”
“Of course, I’m with you.” My defenses rise with the pitch in my voice and the flurry of my excited hands as they keep up with my words. “I’m here. I’m always right here. What do you mean?”
When he doesn’t speak, I say, “ You said the wrong name. How did this turn around on me?”
He huffs, brushing by me. “Go to work, Lena.”
He disappears down the dark hall, leaving me crushed.
I plop against the table’s edge in a full-bodied slump.
Still breathing through my panic, I glance at the opposite wall.
Amid family pictures, my eyes stop on the two framed hand-written notes at the center.
First, a note I found in Mom’s medication journal after she passed, words that inspired Saddletree.
Dream something better. The second is from Ben—a message he wrote on a warning ticket after pulling me over for speeding the day we met, words that, in my grief and high anxiety, I desperately needed. Things will get better.
His promise held true. With him by my side, I turned the shitshow remains of my life into a stable and thriving business, and my grip on that has been white-knuckled and fierce ever since.
Saddletree isn’t just my dream. It’s our home, Ruthie’s future, and our retirement plan.
It’s the safety net that will catch us if his hearing worsens and he decides not to work anymore.
That was the deal we made when he supported me through Saddletree’s creation—I’d be there for him if the situation ever reversed. That’s why I work so hard.
But something’s been lost.
Ten minutes ago, I thought I had everything I ever wanted. Now, for the first time, I’m left wondering, do I truly have Ben?