Chapter 23
LIAM
When I pull into the driveway on Wednesday night, the house is dark save for the porch lights I have on a timer. Peyton’s car is not parked outside.
I kill the engine and check my phone. No messages. I drum my fingers against the steering wheel. This shouldn’t bother me. My wife is an adult. She is not obliged to inform me of her movements. Peyton has every right to go wherever she wants without reporting to me.
We are just roommates with benefits—the legal kind, not the fun kind.
Inside, I flip on the lights and drop my keys in the ceramic dish on the console table. The foyer is empty of boxes. Peyton must’ve finished unpacking.
Has she gone out to celebrate?
I loosen my tie as I climb the stairs. After changing out of my suit, I wander back downstairs and into the open space kitchen.
It’s spotless, but with tiny signs of Peyton’s presence strewn everywhere.
She’s scattered a few Halloween decorations around, small pumpkins in different shapes and colors.
A garland of leaves and twigs over the living room mantel.
And is that a stick-on spider web in the window’s corner?
I’m not big on decorations. I wouldn’t even bother with a Christmas tree if Mrs. Gable didn’t insist on putting one up for me. But I don’t mind these little touches.
A new tall vase is on the kitchen island filled with dried colorful flowers. And, sitting on the granite counter, a contraption that must be the complicated wine opener we stole from her ex.
I pick it up, turning it over in my hand, and smile. I’m glad I got it for her.
I set it down before I get too sentimental over a piece of metal and go to the fridge, where I find a note on a new dry-erase board.
Heat the casserole at 350° for 15 min. Or 3 min microwave. Gone to book club. P
She’s at the book club. The relief that floods through me is absurd. It’s not like I thought she’d run away. But knowing where she is calms a primal instinct in me I hadn’t realized was agitated.
Still, as I eat at the kitchen island, the silence of the large house presses in on me more heavily than usual.
Quiet evenings have never bothered me.
Now I feel utterly alone.
Abandoned.
I frown at my half-eaten dinner. For fuck’s sake, it’s been only a few days. We’ve had a grand total of two dinners together, three counting the one at my parents’. How did she become my new normal so fast?
Does the uncomfortable tightness in my chest mean I miss her? Is it her I miss? Or is it having someone around?
I get my answer two hours later, when the rumble of her car in the driveway has me on my feet pronto. And since I’m a man with no dignity left, I don’t stay in my study. No, I walk to the foyer to meet her like a pathetic puppy wagging his tail.
The lock turns, and Peyton breezes in, bringing a gust of cool night air with her.
She rears back in surprise at finding me waiting for her. As she should be. I have no business hovering here.
“Oh, hi,” she says, blinking. Her cheeks flushed from the cold, hair wild from the wind.
I should say something cool, detached. Something that doesn’t make me sound like a man starved for attention. Instead, I ask, “How was the book club?”
Her face lights up. “It was amazing!” She drops her keys in the dish next to mine. “Everyone was so nice…”
She keeps talking as she peels off her jacket, hanging it on the coat rack. I listen, not bothered by the barrage of words.
I am selfishly glad she is fitting in. If she has friends, if she feels part of the town, it will make our arrangement easier. She won’t be miserable. She’ll stay.
Not that I want her to stay for any reason other than getting my dad off my back.
“I talked to Lila about your job offer.”
“And?”
I’m not even jealous she’s co-opting my best friend. I’m relieved she has someone to talk to.
“She said I should shadow you at the office for a day, to get a sense of the business and if I’d like working with you.”
“It’s a good idea,” I admit. “Tomorrow would be more of a regular day. But I can’t, I have back-to-back meetings.”
“Oh.” Her face falls slightly.
“But we could do Friday, even if it’s a shorter day.”
Her brow furrows. “Why is it a shorter day?”
“Friday nights in Blue Crescent Harbor in the fall are all about football. The Bobcats, the high school team, have a home game. The entire town shuts down early to prepare.”
I pause, then add, “I’m going. Do you want to come?”
“I’m not into sports.” She wrinkles her nose. “But if you think it’ll be good for us to be seen together… then sure.”
For inexplicable reasons, that reply stings.
“It’s not mandatory,” I say, sounding too testy and not in the least cool. “But it’s fun. Everyone goes, and there’s an informal tailgate party before the game.”
She studies me, perhaps sensing the shift in my mood. “Okay. Sure then.” She beams at me. “But don’t get annoyed with me if I ask a million questions because I don’t understand what’s going on.”
That smile is a precise hit to the chest. A sudden, sharp stitch, like when you run too fast in cold air and can’t breathe.
“Deal,” I rasp.
“I’m going to head up. Book club is surprisingly draining.”
I nod. “I’ll be up soon.”
She waves over her shoulder, a casual, domestic gesture that feels too natural, too real.
When I make it to bed an hour later, she’s already asleep, curled on her side, breathing deep and even. The lamp on her nightstand is still on, a book splayed open on the covers beside her. I close it, slipping a bookmark in, and turn off the light.
I slide under my separate comforter, keeping to my side of the bed as promised. Despite the exhaustion of the day, sleep evades me. I’m too aware of her presence, of the soft sounds of her breathing, of the faint scent of her shampoo on the pillow next to mine.
The last thought I have before drifting off is that tomorrow, I’ll wake up like I did today and the day before, with my nose in her hair, my arm wrapped over her waist, spooning her.
And like every other morning so far, I’ll cowardly scoot to my side, and she’ll chase me, snuggling against me without waking.
And when she does wake up, I’ll let her believe she’s the snuggle bear because it’s better than the alternative: admitting how much my body craves hers.
That’s what happens the next morning. I blink awake with my face buried in her curls, her warm body tucked against mine.
This time, I don’t just scoot away. I roll out of bed completely. I stand by the side, heart hammering, looking down at her. She shifts in her sleep, sleepily searching for me. And when she doesn’t find me, she pulls my pillow into her arms and hugs it tight.
I force myself to turn away. I have an early morning. She doesn’t need to wake up yet.
I shower quietly in the en suite and dress in the walk-in closet. I go downstairs and have breakfast alone; the silence is back, but with her upstairs it doesn’t bother me.
Before I leave, I see the note on the fridge again. I erase her message from last night and write a new one, the marker squeaking against the glossy surface of the board:
Why do you use kids’ toothpaste?
Hours later, when I return home, I find her reply waiting for me:
I like the strawberry taste.
And fuck, now I’m going to be thinking nonstop about whether she, too, would taste of strawberries if I kissed her.