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I shake my head gently, attempting to break his hold on me. “And your budget?”
His eyes twinkle as he stands, his broad shoulders and height engulfing me. “Don’t have one.”
“That sounds…” I trail off and then change directions. “What did you say it is you do again?”
He smiles, revealing perfectly white teeth as he holds the door open. “I didn’t.”
* * *
“Here, you lucky bitch.”
I spin on my heel and face Amanda who’s holding out a brilliant bouquet of pink and deep purple flowers. Placing my handbag back on the desk, I take the gift.
“Who are these from?”
“There’s no card. I checked. I asked the delivery, but he didn’t know. Isn’t it your anniversary this weekend?”
My thoughts race back to the morning and the altercation with Shawn.
Had he had a change of heart?
Could he actually be interested in reconciling?
“Where’d you go?” Amanda eyes me suspiciously.
Not wanting to delve into my marital issues, I ignore the question. “It is this weekend, and the flowers are exquisite.” I want to tame the surge of hope by beating it with a stick, but it feels too good to ignore.
“I can’t remember the last time I was given flowers,” Amanda pouts while crossing her arms.
“The men who give them are a dying breed, I assure you. When you find one, don’t let him go.” Unless he lets go first. “Hey, listen…” I say, changing subject before it gets too heavy. “When the files come through from Mr. Alexander’s assistant, can you forward them to me? Doesn’t matter what time.” I hook my handbag over my shoulder and balance the bouquet with my free hand. “I’m extremely curious as to the mystery surrounding this file. And no peeking. I don’t want any spoilers.”
“That man can spoil me as much as he likes,” she says, failing to hide her filthy smile.
“Says every woman he’s graced the presence of.”
Amanda raises a brow. “Including you?”
I laugh lightly. “I’m not immune to his charms. I am, however, married.” For what it’s worth. “So, that’s your best shot.” I start heading out the door. “Remember to send through the files as soon as you get them. I don’t care how late.”
“Heard you the first time, boss lady.”
Thirty minutes later, I pull into the drive and stare at the bouquet which has perfumed my car. Then my focus falls on my beautiful home, which in the twilight glow is even more welcoming.
But home for how long? I don’t know.
Closing the front door behind me, I see Shawn sitting at the counter studying a long message on his cell, a scotch poured, the bottle ready and waiting for the next. This scenario isn’t unusual, but it happening at this time of day is, considering he often doesn’t make it home until after I’ve gone to bed. He also said he wouldn’t be home, so him being here raises suspicion.
With his back to me, I place a gentle kiss on his cheek and he flinches. I step back, unsure why he’s reacted so strongly.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” he says curtly. I look behind me to the door and then back to my husband. How had he not heard me close the door, and my heels on the polished concrete? He seems rattled and whatever he’s been reading on his cell certainly is the cause of it.
“Everything okay?” I ask, cautiously.
“Fine,” he dismisses, downing the rest of his scotch before pouring another. Shawn still hasn’t turned to greet me, so I circle the counter and place the bouquet on top.
“Nice flowers,” he says, turning his cell off before running a hand over his face. He looks like shit. Stress is eating away at any charisma he has left. Perhaps my presence alone is enough to cause such a reaction.
“Thank you,” I say, touching a silky petal between two fingers. “I didn’t expect them.”
He frowns, shaking his head slowly, his aqua-blue eyes locking onto mine.
“Blythe, those flowers aren’t from me.”
In that moment, I recall how my name sounded coming from Kane Alexander’s mouth compared to that of my husband just now.
I go to rebut, but close my mouth, realizing I’ve brought another man’s bouquet of flowers home and my husband hasn’t even batted an eyelid. I stop touching the petals, feeling like it’s a betrayal. A betrayal against the man I married, but it can no longer be called a marriage. The hope I’d had earlier crumbles like an avalanche.
If these aren’t from my husband, there’s no reconciliation, no peace treaty, no white flag.
I take his crystal glass and quarter-fill it with scotch. Downing it in one hit, I pour another and lean against the fridge. “Why are you home early?” The words are loaded with hurt and anger.
He studies me for a moment, eyes empty of all emotion. “I’ve come to tell you I won’t be home for a week.”
