The Husband Who Loved Me Too Late (Marriage in Crisis, Grovel & Redemption #9)

CHAPTER ONE

Payton

I WOKE TO THE SOFT click of Max fastening his watch.

For a few seconds, I stayed still beneath the covers and watched him from across the bedroom.

He stood in front of the mirror in a charcoal suit, his white shirt already buttoned, dark tie hanging loose around his collar.

Morning light slipped through the curtains and caught along the sharp line of his jaw.

Six years, and my pulse still jumped at the sight of him.

Max Winslow was unfairly handsome, dark hair, gray eyes, broad shoulders, a face that belonged on magazine covers beside headlines about billion-dollar acquisitions.

He carried himself with the quiet certainty of a man who had spent his life walking into rooms where everyone already knew who he was.

He was brilliant too, though that part rarely made the photographs. Max could skim a financial report over breakfast and remember exact figures three weeks later, look at a failing store, ask a handful of questions, and identify problems entire management teams had missed.

Conrad Winslow had spent decades preparing his only son to inherit Winslow Retail Group, and he had succeeded. Max was exceptional at almost everything he did.

Marriage seemed to be the exception.

He caught my gaze in the mirror. “Morning.”

“Morning.”

He returned to his tie without a smile, a kiss, or any mention of the date.

Our bedroom was enormous, cream walls, dark hardwood floors, a marble fireplace, windows overlooking lawns that seemed to stretch forever.

The walk-in closet was bigger than the apartment Mom and I had lived in when I was a teenager.

When I first moved into the Winslow mansion, I had been scared to touch anything.

Now my clothes filled half the closet, my books covered shelves throughout the house, and I had replaced the decorator’s stiff throw pillows and convinced Max that a home didn’t need fresh flowers in every room simply because somebody once decided wealthy people liked flowers.

It had never quite stopped feeling like a Winslow house.

“You’re awake early,” he said.

I glanced at the clock. Eight fourteen. “I’m going to see Mom.”

“The bookstore?”

“Yes.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Good.” The answer came easily. Mom was always good, or at least that was what she told people, even during months when she worked seven days a week cleaning houses and still had to calculate which bills could wait until payday.

“Tell her I said hello.”

“I will.”

For one ridiculous second, I wondered whether he might finally acknowledge our anniversary. Instead, he checked his phone.

“I have a late meeting tonight.”

The flicker of hope disappeared so quickly I almost resented myself for having felt it. “Okay.”

“It could run past nine. Don’t wait for dinner.”

I forced a smile. “I won’t.”

He looked at me then, really looked, his gaze staying a second longer than necessary.

Occasionally I caught glimpses of something warmer behind all that careful control, something I could never quite understand.

That uncertainty had kept me in love with him far longer than common sense should have allowed.

His phone buzzed. “Anything you need before I go?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“I’ll see you tonight.”

The door closed quietly behind him. Our marriage had always been quiet.

Max treated me with respect in public and courtesy in private, calm and controlled in a way that kept our life free of scandal and cruelty alike.

There were women who would probably have called me lucky, and sometimes I called myself lucky too, because it made the emptiness easier to explain.

I tapped my phone. September 18, our sixth wedding anniversary.

On this day six years earlier, I had stood beside Max in front of hundreds of guests while two powerful families celebrated a marriage neither of us had arranged.

I had gone into it knowing Max didn’t love me or want the arrangement, and that our fathers cared more about what the marriage meant on paper than what happened after the guests went home.

What I hadn’t expected was how easy Max would be to love.

He remembered how I took my coffee after seeing me make it once, muttered dry comments that made charity dinners bearable, called his mother every Sunday no matter where he was traveling.

On nights he came home exhausted, he’d sometimes notice the light beneath my door and stop to ask if I needed anything.

None of it was dramatic. Taken together, it had been enough to convince me there might someday be more.

I had spent years telling myself to stop hoping. Apparently six of them still hadn’t been enough.

The Turning Page sat on the corner of Maple and Third, exactly where it had for more than a decade. The green awning had faded, one gold letter on the sign tilted slightly, and a handwritten poster advertised Saturday story hour beside another offering twenty percent off selected hardcovers.

Mom hated marking books down. She always said there was a difference between running a sale and teaching customers never to pay full price.

The bell jingled when I stepped inside.

“There she is,” Mom said from behind the register, coming around to hug me tightly.

Kim had always been small, barely five foot three, dark curls that refused to behave, today in jeans, sneakers, and the green apron I’d helped design years ago.

For most of my childhood she had come home smelling faintly of bleach and furniture polish.

Those days were behind her now. The bookstore had been her dream, built from years of saving while cleaning other people’s houses, and she’d earned every inch of it.

“You look tired,” she said, pulling back.

“Why does every mother say hello like that?”

“Because every daughter lies about sleeping enough.”

“I’m sleeping fine.”

“Sure.”

I kissed her cheek. The familiar smell of coffee, paper, and old wood surrounded me, along with cinnamon from a candle near the register. “Still lighting candles in a bookstore?”

“It hasn’t burned down yet.”

At first glance the store looked the same as ever, the children’s section painted pale yellow with stars, the old leather chairs, the crooked shelf Mom refused to replace because she’d built it herself.

A closer look told a different story. The tables near the entrance held fewer books than I remembered, the new release display looked sparse, an overhead light flickered near biographies, and a frayed patch of carpet by the register had been covered with a small rug.

Six years ago I would have caught those details instantly, back when I worked here every day.

Now they stood out for a different reason.

Retail had become part of the background noise of my marriage, years of listening to Max discuss store performance over dinner, absorbing more about merchandising and inventory than anyone realized.

“Want one?” Mom asked, heading for the coffee counter.

“Last time it could have stripped paint.”

“I made this pot twenty minutes ago.”

“That’s what worries me.”

Only four customers were in the store. It was almost eleven. “Quiet?” I asked.

“Tuesday.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“See? That’s why you’re the smart one.”

I laughed, though something tightened in my stomach as she poured the coffee. A stack of envelopes sat beside the register, one stamped PAST DUE in red. Mom picked up a catalog and dropped it over the pile with a movement meant to look casual. It wasn’t.

“How’s business?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“That’s usually what the word means.”

“Mom, you’re doing that thing where you answer before I’ve finished asking.”

“Then ask.”

“What’s with the discount table?”

“I’m running a sale. I’ve matured.”

“That seems unlikely.” She gave me a flat look, and my attention drifted back to the envelopes. “Are you behind on anything?”

“No.” The answer came too quickly to reassure me.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Mom said. “Like Max when somebody tells him a division is performing ‘within expectations.’”

“I don’t do that.”

“You absolutely do. Occupational hazard.”

“You don’t have an occupation.”

The words hung between us. Mom winced. “That came out wrong.”

“I know what you meant.” And I did, but it still stung.

I had once worked here every day, opening and closing, ordering inventory, knowing regular customers by name.

After I married Max, my time filled with boards, fundraisers, dinners, all the obligations of being a Winslow.

Eventually the bookstore became Mom’s world again.

“You know this will always be yours too,” Mom said, touching my arm. Then her eyes narrowed with sudden purpose. “Speaking of things that are yours.”

“No.”

“Six years.”

“Don’t.”

“What are you and Max doing tonight?”

I took a sip of coffee and nearly regretted it. “Dinner.”

“Where downtown?”

“Why are you interrogating me?”

“Because your husband has enough money to close a restaurant and you can’t tell me which one.”

“He’s arranging it.” The lie sounded thin even to me.

“Payton.”

“He has a meeting.”

Her expression softened, which was worse than disappointment. “Did he forget?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do.”

Mom reached across the counter and squeezed my hand. “I’m not going to say anything.”

“Thank you.”

“I could.”

“I know.”

The bell jingled as a customer entered. “Duty calls,” Mom said, then turned back. “Stay for lunch.”

“I will.”

I watched her greet the customer, then looked around the store again.

The faded awning and thin displays could have meant nothing.

Even the discount table could have been exactly what she claimed.

The envelopes bothered me more. Something was wrong, and Mom had spent my entire life hiding problems until she thought I was ready to deal with them.

Apparently some habits were harder to break than others.

Max got home at ten seventeen. I’d checked the clock three times in the last ten minutes, curled into the corner of the living room sofa with a book open across my lap, pretending to read without making it past the same paragraph.

His footsteps crossed the marble floor before he appeared with his tie loosened and his jacket over one arm, looking tired the way he always did, more contained than exhausted.

“You’re still up.”

“I wasn’t tired.”

He glanced at the book in my lap. “Good?”

“I’ll let you know when I actually read some of it.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, and I caught sight of a small rectangular package in his hand, dark green paper, thin gold ribbon.

“I know what day it is,” he said, following my gaze.

“You do?”

“Of course I do.”

“You gave a very convincing performance this morning.”

“I had an eight-thirty call with Seattle.”

“That explains forgetting how calendars work.”

“I didn’t forget.”

He crossed the room and sat beside me, holding out the package. “Happy anniversary.”

I took it. “Happy anniversary.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“You’re supposed to say you wanted to.”

“I did want to.”

I slipped my finger beneath the tape and opened the paper. A book rested inside. “Oh my God.”

“I assume that’s good.”

It was an early edition of The Secret Garden, faded green cloth, delicate gold lettering, pages yellowed with age but the cover beautifully preserved. “Where did you get this?”

“My assistant found it through a dealer in Boston.”

“Did she pick it?”

“No.” He answered without hesitation, and warmth spread through my chest. “You mentioned it once.”

“Three years ago.”

“You remember that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Most people didn’t remember a conversation from three years earlier about a childhood book.

Mom had bought me my first copy when I was eight, from a thrift store, torn cover held together with tape, and I’d carried it everywhere until the pages fell out.

During a flight to Chicago, Max had noticed me rereading it and asked why.

I’d told him about that battered copy, about imagining the garden was somewhere real.

We’d talked about it once. Within five minutes he’d gone back to work, and I’d assumed the conversation disappeared as quickly as it ended.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, opening the cover carefully. “I love it.”

His gaze rested on me, the usual reserve easing before he looked away. “I wasn’t sure which edition you’d prefer.”

“You researched editions?”

“My assistant researched editions.”

“You told her what to research.”

He sighed. “Are you going to make this difficult?”

“Probably.” He laughed quietly, catching me off guard, and I found myself smiling with him.

The gift felt different from the expensive jewelry that would have been easier for a man like Max to buy. This had required him to remember me.

“Did you eat?” I asked.

“At the meeting. Conference-room sandwiches.”

“Tragic.”

“I survived.”

“Barely, by the look of you.”

“Are you insulting me on our anniversary?”

“Apparently.”

This was the Max who made it so difficult to give up on him, dry and funny and easy to be around when work loosened its grip. Then he stood, and the evening was over.

“I have another early start tomorrow.”

“Of course.”

“I’m sorry dinner didn’t happen.”

“You were working.”

“I know.” He sounded almost awkward, which made the words matter more than they should have.

His gaze held mine long enough for the old hope to stir. I wondered whether he might lean down and kiss me. After a moment, he stepped back.

“Happy anniversary, Payton.”

“Happy anniversary, Max.”

He walked out, leaving me on the sofa with the book in my hands. Mom would have warned me against making too much of one thoughtful gift after years of distance, and she’d have been right.

Understanding had never been the problem. Max had remembered a childhood story I’d told him once and gone to the trouble of finding the book that went with it. For a man who guarded every emotion so carefully, gestures like this were impossible for me to dismiss.

By the time I went upstairs, I was hoping again.