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“You locked him in there?”
“He couldn’t control himself, Amber,” Mark snaps and I’m taken aback by the outburst of emotion. “The kid has to learn to control himself—the kid has to be disciplined.”
“Mark, there’s something wrong with him cognitively?—”
“Bullshit, Amber. You’re basing that off of one person’s assessment. And besides, even if there is something wrong with his brain, do you mean to tell me that we’re not supposed to discipline our kid?”
I inhale to argue back, but bite my tongue. Mark is never going to understand Connor—or me for that matter—and before too long I’m going to be out of this marriage anyway. Arguing with him is not worth it—not anymore.
Without giving Mark the courtesy of a response, I hurry to Connor’s bedroom. My stomach sinks when I see the door shut. We never ever fully shut the door to Connor’s room.
Quietly, I unlock and push the door open.
The overhead lights are on, along with the two bedside lamps. He must’ve been scared. Connor is curled into a ball in the middle of the floor. My heart breaks. Slowly, I tiptoe across the room and kneel down, cursing my popping knees as I do so. He doesn’t stir.
I swipe a piece of that beautiful brown hair from his forehead.
He’s obviously been crying. His eyes are matted and dried snot circles his nose.
Tears fill my eyes. I’m a terrible mom.
I should have been here.
“We’ll figure out what’s going on with you, baby,” I whisper. “Don’t worry, Mommy will fix this.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
ROWAN
It is eleven o’clock when I hear my husband pull into the garage. I surge out of the armchair where I’ve been waiting for him since stalking him at Last Call. My heart begins to race. I tiptoe-jog to the bedroom and quickly light all nine candles that I spent thirty minutes strategically placing around the room.
The house door opens.
I dart into the bathroom and check the mirror. The makeup I applied two hours earlier has faded, but still looks decent. Thick eyeliner, dark eyeshadow, and bright red lips to match the lingerie draped over my naked body. I pinch my nipples until they are erect, then fluff my hair to add volume. Luckily, I’ve had just enough wine to deaden the insecurity that I would normally feel when seeing the fat rolls pooching around the delicate strings of the lingerie. I remind myself that there is only one part of me that my husband is interested in, and that’s between my legs.
I run back into the bedroom, grab the bottle of champagne I purchased on the way home, and turn toward the door, ready.
Footsteps down the hall.
My heart is racing, my palms slick against the chilled bottle.
The footsteps take a detour and disappear into the kitchen.
“Dammit,” I mutter. Come on, come on, come on…
Finally, my husband appears in the doorway.
Despite the nerves coursing through my veins, I smile the calm, confident, seductive smile I practiced in the mirror earlier.
Shepard’s jaw unhinges.
This reaction pleases me.
“Welcome home,” I say, popping the cork. Careful to angle my body so that he doesn’t notice the fat rolls, I pour two glasses of champagne.
Shepherd is frozen in place as I pad across the room and hand him one of the glasses.
“You look—” he stutters, “you look amazing.”
