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A little jolt of pleasure hits me. Okay, I’m showering in here. Does that mean I’m sleeping in here?
Don’t get ahead of yourself.
“Shampoo’s fine,” I say, rising from the bed. “Unless it’s one of those body wash and shampoo combo abominations.”
He pops his head out of the bathroom, eyes wide.
I stare at him, “You’re kidding me.”
“It’s efficient.”
“It’s basically dish soap.”
“And I’m clean enough to eat off.” He grins like he’s proud of the line. “I’ll get your stuff. Do you need anything else?”
Good god, that dimple.
I try not to smile back like a fool. Not at the joke, but at the fact that it seems like he wants me to sleep in here. Still, I have to be certain because I’m way too good at misreading signals.
“I’m sleeping in here?”
“No, in the hallway. Yes, in here.”
“Sorry for not just assuming I’m invited.” I shake my head at him. “I’ll get my stuff. Let me throw some on clothes in case Gretchen or Margot are around.”
“Check my texts. They both message when they leave for the day. Code’s zero-seven-one-nine-nine.”Shane tells me the passcode to his phone like he’s telling me the weather. Keith constantly changed his, always “forgetting” to give it to me, even though he had mine.
“Aren’t you scared I’ll see your sexts?” I try to sound playful, but even to my own ears, my voice is brittle.
He scoffs, missing the catch in my voice. “Funny.”
He ducks back into the bathroom. I tap the code out. He has two notifications, and when I click into his messages, there are texts from Margot and Gretchen. I don’t scroll through his messages, but I do look at the names on the screen. That’s not snooping. It’s only snooping if I scroll down. All the names are male, except for a Shannon, which could go either way. The first few words of the message are visible beneath the name, making it clear it’s a conversation about work.
Closing the home screen, I call to him, “They’re gone, be right back.”
“Hurry.”
I do, smiling all the way to my room.
Our shower is surprisingly sweet. Shane washes my hair with my products but insists on lathering me from head to toe in his barbaric body wash and shampoo solution. It smells good, though. Smells like him. He’s fidgety during the shower, and I wait for him to bring up tomorrow. To say something, anything. He doesn’t. I keep waiting, though, a feather of hope continuing to tickle. It keeps tickling all the way up until I fall asleep.
Chapter Nineteen
Claire
I wake up alone, tangled in Shane’s sheets. My mouth is dry, and my hair’s a tornado. The bathroom’s dark, the door open. A glance at the clock shows it’s after six. Maybe he’s making coffee. My discarded clothing is folded on the foot of the bed, and I throw it on. I stop in the bathroom long enough to pull myself somewhat together. My hand is on the doorknob when I hear a voice I don’t recognize. I freeze, not wanting to chat with anyone in my disheveled state.
It’s a woman’s voice, high and melodic, “What’s that way?” Not Margot, definitely not Gretchen.
I recognize the voice that answers. Margot says, “That’s Mr. Underwood’s room. Come on, I’ll show you the downstairs.”
My stomach flips, then knots at the strange woman’s response, her voice faint as they move away, “So, will he be around much?”
My replacement.
Heat licks my cheeks. What was I thinking? Shane’s a wealthy, successful lawyer. He could have women lining up around the block for him. And this was nothing but a business arrangement. There’s no way he’s in the kitchen. He’s left, gone to work because, to him, this is just another day.
When I’m sure they’re gone, I rush to my room. If there’s a world record for packing speed, I’m pretty sure I’m in the running because I’ve crammed my things in my bag and stripped the sheets from the bed before the hurt has completely sunk in. I hold my breath as I go down the stairs, like if I can keep air in my lungs, I can keep all the little pieces of myself together.
