Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER TWELVE
“So, over here, we ran into an issue with electrical,” my contractor Mark says, pointing out a tangle of wires protruding from the ceiling. “All of this needs to be upgraded. But there’s another problem that isn’t actually inside the building. I think it’s the line from the pole. So we’re going to have to talk to the city about that.”
“How long will that take?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.
He looks at me like I cracked a joke. “They’ll get to us when they feel like it.”
“Okay, but after that, everything else is in place? When can you guys start the finish work?”
“Drywall will go in pretty quickly. We’ll get that done in about a week. But we can’t even start that until the wiring is resolved.”
I let out a breath, reminding myself to inhale again. “Keep me posted.”
One of Mark’s guys calls him over, and at the same moment, my phone rings. I duck out the back door into what will eventually be a large outdoor play yard full of Astroturf, ramps, tunnels, and wading pools. Only right now it looks like a big muddy mess.
I swipe to answer the call and nearly drop the phone into a dirty puddle when I see the screen. Celia is trying to video chat. I’ve been so preoccupied worrying about my business and my marriage that I completely forgot to congratulate my sister on giving birth. I smooth my hair quickly, then raise the screen to my face.
“Celia, hi! It’s a boy!” These idiotic words leave my lips before I can think. I had meant to say something along the lines of Congrats! I’m so excited to have a nephew! I might be a terrible sister, but I plan to be an excellent aunt! But apparently my voice had other ideas.
“Yes, yes he is,” she says coolly, not bothering to point out how stupid I sound. “I thought you might want to meet Gabriel Edward Cohen.”
She angles the camera down to a sleeping, wrinkled little face in her arms. I hate to admit that most infants look the same to me, but I try to make the appropriate “awwww” sounds and say something about how tiny he is the way other people gush over babies.
Then I pause, my brain backing up a few seconds. “Wait, Gabriel Edward ? You named him after Dad?”
“Uh, no—not really,” Celia says abruptly. “Adam's family has a tradition of naming babies after both grandparents, but obviously we’re going to call him Gabriel, after Adam's dad.”
Even so, color me stunned. My memories of Dad are pretty foggy. He left before I turned five, but Celia was ten, and if there’s one person in the world who hates Edward Stanton as much as Mom does, it’s her.
“Well, um...he seems sweet no matter what you call him. I’ll have to come out for a visit after I get my second daycare up and running.”
“Oh, how are things going with that?” she asks, peering closer at the phone like she’s trying to see where I’m standing. Quickly, I angle myself so her only view is the brick wall behind me and not the mess of construction. “I thought you were hoping to launch in the spring?”
“No.” I grit my teeth. “Everything’s going great. We should hopefully still open by June.”
She arches a well-manicured eyebrow, which draws my attention to the fact that she looks stunning, as always. Her skin is flawless, her blonde hair styled. Definitely not the picture of a brand-new mom. She doesn’t even look tired. “Well, you know Lydia, if you ever need to chat about?—”
“I’m good!” I interrupt, because the last thing I want is for my sister to start life coaching me. The only thing worse would be if Mom was here to join in. “And actually, I was just about to pop a gift for little Gabriel Edward in the mail, so I had better run. I’ll try to make it out for Thanksgiving.”
“You and Anton both, I hope.”
“Yes! Both of us. Definitely,” I say, as if my blood wasn’t already boiling without having to think about my husband. “Enjoy motherhood. It looks good on you!”
“Bye—”
I end the call before she can finish her farewell and drum my fingers on the dirty bricks, trying not to envision a perfect holiday spread at her house in November. The table set like a magazine, her family in matching outfits, our mother doting on Baby Gabriel. And me there...alone?
I came so close to calling Anton out last night when I got home. He clearly wasn’t asleep. It would’ve been so easy to just stand there and tell him I knew . Or even better, send it in a message from LonelyGirl8, just to heighten his shame. But when I walked in, I was just so relieved to see him there. Not at some hotel, or worse, in some other woman’s bed. And I can’t think what would have stopped him if he didn’t still have feelings for me.
We could still make this work.
At six thirty sharp, I step out of the bathroom and walk carefully down the hall. I had just enough time to shower, do my hair, and put on a little mascara after rushing home from work. I hope it’s enough. Since I don’t get much practice in heels, I’m afraid I might fall right out of these pumps if I move faster than a saunter. But considering the party and who’s throwing it, cocktail attire seemed like my only choice.
Anton waits by the front window. Even though he wears a suit every day to work, I stop now, trying to view his figure the way another woman would. Taking in his broad, square shoulders and narrow waist. Imagining the set of washboard abs beneath his crisp white shirt. I stand straighter and suck in, trying not to feel too mismatched since the only weightlifting I do involves hauling dogs into bathtubs. But in the mirror, at least, I looked pretty good. I went with the blue dress I wore to Celia’s wedding—the one from the photo Anton cut me out of on Unmatched. Passive-aggressive? Most definitely. But after last night, I couldn’t help myself.
I hadn’t expected to see him in the hall this morning, hadn’t had time to sip my coffee and process what he’d done. The profile. The messages. The things MountainMan3 said to LonelyGirl8. What he said he wanted from her. Accusations were on my lips the moment I laid eyes on him. But when it came time to speak, I found myself playing along. I’m not sure why. Maybe I wanted to pretend we were the same couple we’d been a few days ago. Weeks. Maybe years.
And isn’t that what he’s doing too?
He’d said he couldn’t go through with it. He’d stayed home. And this morning, he asked me on a date.
He turns his head as I enter the room, and suddenly I’m all too aware of his eyes scanning my figure, lingering on the cleavage at my neckline. His lips seem to form a word he doesn’t say aloud. I wait for any sign that he makes the connection between the dress and his cheating profile picture, but he just steps toward me, eyes glowing.
“Wow. You look . . .”
I rest one hand on my hip and run it up to toy with my hair, which I blew out smooth, making note of the way his gaze tracks my motions. Like his thoughts and desires are somehow tied to my body’s movements. Like I could crush him, or crush him to me just by biting my lip. It’s a strange, heady feeling. I have felt so powerless the last twenty-four hours, I’m not sure what to do with it.
But then he takes a step forward, hands rising toward me, and an alarm goes off inside my brain.
I step back, the Unmatched messages burning fresh in my mind. What he wants is clear. But I can’t say the same for me.
“Ready to go?” I say, examining a speck of nothing on my skirt.
In my peripheral vision, I watch him flounder. And for a second, I even feel bad. He came home, to me , and now I’m toying with him. But I’m not exactly ready to run into his arms.
“Uh, yeah.” He plunges his hands into his pockets and pulls out his keys .
I give Heartthrob a kiss on top of his head and a frozen Kong full of dog food, then I grab Carl Wallace’s birthday present—a personalized leather-wrapped desktop Bluetooth speaker—and follow Anton out the door.
“Thanks for picking up a gift,” he says halfway to the car. “I’m sure you chose better than I would’ve.”
“That’s why you married me,” I say, though the words come out a bit sharper than I intend.
He doesn’t answer, opening the passenger side of his truck for me like he has since the day I met him. It took me a while to get used to that; he’s always said his mother would expect it. I frown, thinking about Sharon and how she’d feel about her son’s Unmatched profile.
“It’s nice going out for a change,” Anton says, climbing into the driver’s seat next to me. “I’ve missed you, Mrs. Richie.”
I shoot him a glance. If anyone’s been missing here, it’s him.
Except...I know that isn’t true. We could’ve gone out Saturday, couldn’t we?
I drop my gaze to my lap. “I keep saying it’ll get easier?—”
“When Pooch Two is open,” he mutters. “Yeah. You do keep saying that.”
I bite my lip, tension spooling in my chest. If he wants to sling guilt trips, I’ve got a hefty one to hit him with.
But then we stop at a light and he turns to me, placing his hand over mine. “Thanks for making the time tonight.”
He lets go so he can drive through the intersection, and I soften a little. He hasn’t sent any more messages to LonelyGirl8—I checked—but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been on the app. Maybe he’s found some other girl he likes better. Someone who didn’t turn him off by bringing up spanking. I steal a glance at him, my cheeks heating at this thought. Or maybe last night was just what he needed to remember he has everything he needs right here.
Eva and Carl Wallace live south of Denver, all the way down near Castle Rock, in a newly built house that could hold four or five of ours inside it. We’ve been there one other time for a Christmas party, and it didn’t seem like a bad commute, but tonight, when we’re both clearly struggling with conversation, the thirty-minute trip seems to drag.
Deer scatter in the yard when we pull up to the Tuscany-meets-American-suburbs house. All the windows are lit up, and as I exit the car, I can tell there’s music playing inside, but out here on the gravel drive, it’s pretty quiet. I pick my way carefully over the pebbles toward the double front doors until I realize Anton’s still in the truck, gripping the wheel. I frown, looking back at him. He’s always hated work social events. The fact that we’re here at all tells me this one must be important to him. And despite everything else churning through my head this evening, a wave of sympathy surges through my chest. I want to make this easier for him.
He notices me waiting and slams the truck door, quickly coming up beside me. The ground is uneven, and as I wobble toward the front porch, I am seriously regretting my choice of shoes. The faux stone front steps seem a million miles away. We finally make our way up to them when my heel goes out from under me. I let out a gasp, pitching toward the porch, but just before my knees hit concrete, Anton’s sturdy arm swoops around my waist. He steadies me, bringing me upright into the circle of his arms. His earthy, clean scent inundates my nose as he ensures I stay on my feet.
“Th-thank you.” I look up into his face to find his eyes burning into mine. “Guess I wore the wrong shoes.”
He loosens his grip, stepping back to let his gaze travel down the length of my legs, and grunts. “I really like those shoes.”
His voice is thick, his hand hot against my skin. My pulse pounds, and suddenly I’m very aware of the short hem of my dress and the cleavage I have on display. I bring my fingers to my lips, avoiding his eyes. This is what I wanted—his desire, his lust. For me , not for someone else. I should do something. Lean in to kiss him. Give him some reason to realize I am who and where he wants to be. But every time I think of making a move, all I want to do is pull away. Just like before I ever knew about Unmatched.
“Lydia,” Anton tries to get my attention, my name laced with something that sounds a lot like longing .
My eyes cloud. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I want.
Why?
I raise my head, staring past him at the door, hoping I’ll figure it out before I take my next breath. His eyes track my movements, careful, assessing. He leans in, his lips part, and in a moment of panic, I reach toward him—and right past him, pressing the small round doorbell beside the polished wood doorframe.
An elaborate set of chimes announces our arrival to everyone inside. I meet his eyes and smile, air rushing out of my lungs. “Don’t want to be late for the party.”