CHAPTER THREE
Carrie
Something was off with Thatcher.
Sure, he’d been distracted for a couple of months, but nothing too terrible.
I’d been irritated by how often he seemed to be texting after hours.
But I knew he was helping Bryce work on the huge ad campaign that would take the company in a new direction.
He was hoping to appeal to a younger audience.
He was also getting adjusted to being CEO of one of the largest financial and investment firms in the country.
So, I’d tried to be understanding. When it seemed to be getting worse instead of better, I’d talked to him about how he was making me feel.
I’d explained that him working more hours combined with constantly texting and emailing once he got home left me feeling like an afterthought.
It was almost like I was getting in the way of his life, and I felt very disconnected from him.
After he’d apologized for texting so often, he’d tried to be more present when he was home. I appreciated the effort, and things got better.
But then he was late getting home one stormy evening. I’d worried about him being on the road between Atlanta and Indigo Falls in the harsh weather. I’d sent him several texts asking where he was, when he’d be getting home, if he was okay, and so on.
He hadn’t responded to a single one.
By the time his headlights flashed through the windows in the front of the house, I’d been pacing back and forth, worried out of my mind.
“Thatcher,” I’d cried and launched myself into his arms as soon as he stepped through the door. I hugged him tight, then jumped down and smacked him in the shoulder.
“Ouch,” he stared at me in surprise. “What the hell was that for?”
“You scared me to death!”
“Because I’m late?” He looked mystified.
“Well, yes. That and the fact that you couldn’t be bothered to answer any of your texts.”
He ran a hand through his wet hair. The rain had turned the blond strands dark, and he almost didn’t look like himself. “Look, baby, I’m cold, wet, and exhausted. Do you think we could do this after I’ve showered? Maybe over dinner?”
Chastened, I sighed. “Of course. Sorry. I was just worried about you. I’ll get dinner warmed up so that it’s ready in about twenty minutes. Will that work?”
“Perfect,” he said, pulling his tie off as he bent to kiss the top of my head.
While he was upstairs, I quickly pulled some pre-made meals out of the fridge and followed the instructions on the lids. We had a cook that brought us meals once a week. He left us enough for the entire week, and I put some in the fridge and some in the freezer.
Thank goodness I didn’t have to cook, or I might have killed Thatcher with food poisoning in the first year we were married. I poured myself a glass of wine, poured Thatcher a glass of whiskey, and waited for the food to be ready while he showered.
I heard a sudden buzzing sound and realized Thatcher had left his phone on the foyer table.
I went to retrieve it and see if it needed to be dried off.
It was dry, thank goodness. Thatcher had that phone attached to his hand all day, and he would go crazy if he had to go even one day without it.
It buzzed again in my hand, and I absentmindedly glanced down at it.
Mads: I loved being with you today. Looking forward to many more days like these.
Mads? I didn’t think I knew a ‘Mads’ that Thatcher worked with.
And the tone of the text was… personal. It made me uneasy.
I started to pull up the text thread between the two of them, but his phone was locked.
I quickly typed in his passcode, which was our anniversary date, but it no longer worked.
Frowning, I wondered why he’d changed it.
“Carrie! Where are you, babe? I’m starving.”
“Sorry.” I hurried into the kitchen and plunked his phone down on the large island in the middle of the huge space.
This kind of kitchen needed an actual chef or at least a talented home cook.
Not two people who couldn’t boil an egg between them.
One of these days I was going to learn how to cook.
Maybe I could talk my best friend Blair into taking a cooking class with me after the Orchid Ball.
“I thought your phone might be wet, but it wasn’t. Who’s Mads?”
He froze for a second. It would’ve probably been imperceptible to anyone else, but I knew him so well it was obvious. The moment passed and he said, “Oh, that’s Maddox Spiller. We call him Mads.” He said it easily, smoothly as he brought his glass to his lips and sipped his whiskey.
“Oh, okay. I don’t think I’ve heard you mention him before.” Him? The text had more of a feminine quality to it. It had definitely sounded like a woman.
A woman who was interested in my husband.
He grinned. “It’s a huge company. Believe me, you haven’t met even close to half of our employees.”
I forced a smile. “I forget how big Caldwell Financial is sometimes,” I admitted. “Hey, why does your phone have a new…”
The oven beeped, distracting me from asking about his passcode. “Could you grab some plates and forks? Let’s just sit at the island counter tonight.”
We laughed and talked through dinner, and I was pleased to see that he didn’t check his phone once, even though it buzzed several times.
In bed later that night, he made slow, passionate love to me, drawing it out and making me insane before I finally came with a scream. I was so exhausted afterwards, I fell right to sleep. I woke up a few hours later as another round of thunderstorms came through.
Bleary-eyed, I went to get a drink of water. When I came back to bed and laid down, I found myself just staring at the ceiling unable to drift off with nature’s fireworks going on outside. I glanced at Thatcher. His face was slack and peaceful with sleep.
I smiled at him, a feeling of love rushing through me. Yes, things had been different between us for a few months, but it was nothing we couldn’t handle. I needed to remember that he was the best husband a girl could ever ask for. I was so glad to call him mine.
I sighed with happiness, yawned, and rolled over. I was almost asleep when I remembered that I’d never asked him why he had a new passcode on his phone.
***
The late nights continued.
What I had thought would be a rare thing turned into a twice weekly occurrence. Sometimes even more than that. It would have been annoying but fine if he’d just respected me enough to text me when he was going to be late.
But he often didn’t. I was starting to worry he just didn’t care enough about me to let me know what was going on.
“It takes you thirty minutes to get home from the office. Can’t you do it then?”
He smiled absentmindedly. “No. My car during my commute is my sanctuary. It’s the only time I’m by myself all day, and I can just do whatever I want to. I can listen to a podcast, play music or audiobooks, or just be silent. I turn my phone off during those times.”
I knew that. He’d told me many times before. “Fine. But please do better about letting me know when you’re going to be late, okay?”
“I will. There’s no excuse for it. I should let you know as soon as I realize work isn’t going to end on time.
” He stopped to think about it. “I think that’s part of the problem.
By the time I figure out I’m going to be late, I’m usually already late.
But I’ll do better. I promise.” He grinned at me, then he bent to kiss me.
The kiss was leisurely but intense, and it quickly turned hungry.
He picked me up and plunked me on top of the island.
My legs wrapped around his waist, and I completely forgot how irritated I was with him.