Page 28 of Married to Lies

I had to do this.

Instead of going straight to Quentin’s office, I made the rounds to build up my courage, emptying tiny wastebaskets into the giant bin on my cart.

I started with Cruz’s office—his was the messiest when he was in town. Crumpled-up pages filled with half-ideas lay scattered around his trash can. I put the bug into my buttoned front pocket and bent to pick them up.

The hairs on the back of my neck raised as I imagined Conrad listening to all the rustling of fabric over the mic. My heart pounded fast enough to match my anxiety while my morals warred with self-protection.

There were no winners in this situation, only losers.

I finished picking up Cruz’s office and moved on to Aaric’s. The chief operating officer had the neatest office of all of them without the space feeling clinical. He had an array of plants lining the entire windowed wall. Smaller succulents in handmade pottery added dimension and color to his bookshelf. Some were floral, others various shades of green.

I noted a new one that still had the tag on it and smiled. String of hearts. Each of the little succulent leaves was shaped like a heart. I’d have to return to see what pot he would eventually choose for this one, watch the strands grow over the side and drip toward the floor like the string of pearls a few shelves over.

Bryce’s office, on the other hand, was the same as it had been before the wedding, except there were several cards on his desk, along with a box wrapped in pink and blue. A baby gift, I assumed.

Jude’s office was untouched as well. He clearly hadn’t been around since the wedding, which meant I got to Quentin’s even sooner.

My heart hammered even harder with each step I took until I stood in the doorway to the sleek office, pulse rushing in my ears. My vision tunneled, and I forced myself to notice his unobstructed view of the glittering city below, twinkling brighter than the starless night sky above. Each second I spent focused on my surroundings was a moment of reprieve from what I’d eventually have to do, so I drank it all in.

His desk was organized but not empty, stacks of paperwork tucked into manilla folders. A legal pad with several pages torn away rested at the center of his desk, a Dallas Diamonds pen on top. And then I noticed a pad of sticky notes near the base of his lamp. Despite myself, a small smile touched my lips at the thought of him writing that note earlier.

I ran my fingers over the pad, like maybe the memory of his touch would transmit to me and calm me somehow.

No such luck.

I looked around, desperate for something more to observe.

The only personal touch was a family photo on his bookshelf.

Four people stood on a football field, all dressed in purple as purple-and-white confetti fell around them. It must have been from last year’s Super Bowl game. My dad and brother couldn’t stop talking about the win. They were the Diamonds’ biggest fans.

There was an older man and woman I assumed to be Quentin’s parents, and then a man who looked of a similar age to Quentin but was wearing a football uniform. And then there was Quentin in a more traditional suit with a purple tie. He didn’t smile in this photo, but his expression was warm.

His family looked sweet together, and that made me even more sad.

I sighed. Lingering here was only prolonging the inevitable.

Fingers shaking, I reached into my pocket and got out the tiny mic. As I looked closer, I noticed a sheer coating on one end—a sticker cover. This was meant to be adhered. Since the desk was glass, I went to his bookshelf, to that photo. And put the mic at the back of the image.

With any luck, he examined this photo regularly and would find the bug sooner than later.

But I also hoped that he had nothing to hide in the first place.

“Last year’s Super Bowl,” a voice rumbled. “The Diamonds won.”

I jumped, nearly dropping the frame, and turned to see Quentin in the office. Instead of his suit, he had on heather-gray joggers and a matching hoodie that tugged over his broad chest. A beanie covered his ears, and his hands were stuffed in his pockets. It was like seeing a completely different version of him. How terrible that I liked this one too.

Trying not to shake the picture out of its frame with my trembling hands, I carefully set it back on the shelf. “Sorry for being nosey.”

He leaned against the doorframe, nearly filling the whole space. “Looks like I’m not the only stalker.”

If he only knew. I glanced toward the photo again and asked, “Your brother’s on the team?”

He nodded. “Nose tackle. My parents are proud.”

There was something to the way he said it that begged further questions, but my heart was in my throat. “I-uh-better get going,” I managed.

He nodded and then said, “I’ll see you tomorrow?”