Page 69 of The Temporary Bride

The acquisition report on my desk has been open for twenty minutes and I’ve read maybe four sentences of it. This is not how I normally operate.

“Goddammit,” I mutter, leaning back in my chair and loosening my tie a bit.

Chloe has been distant for a week. Ever since that nightmare that woke her up in the middle of the night and her refusal to talk about it the next morning, something between us has shifted in a way I really fucking hate. We’re still sharing a bed, still moving around each other in the house, still working together on Eclipse Studios, but whatever was starting to open up between us has closed back down.

Sleeping next to her every night and not touching her is like fucking torture—but that’s not the part that’s actually getting to me. It’s the other things I desperately want, the parts of her she keeps behind glass.

Her thoughts. Her dreams. Her fears.

What she’s carrying around that she won’t let me near.

I want to know what scared her badly enough to make her cry against my chest in the dark and then pack it away by morning like it never happened. I want to know what she’s thinking when she looks at me across the dinner table with that expression I can’t read. I want the woman I saw on the couch watching Casablanca and talking about cinematography like she’d forgotten to be careful around me, the one who laughed at my jokes and forgot to hold herself at arm’s length.

Instead, I’ve got the composed, professional, impenetrable version, and she’s very good at it, and it’s making it so fucking difficult to give a damn about a forty-page acquisition report.

My phone rings, and my mother’s face pops up on the screen. She’s been calling more often lately, and I understand why. Losing my father was complicated for everyone in this family, but she lost a husband, and the grief is real regardless of what their marriage looked like from the outside. My brothers and I are all dealing with it in our various ways. My way involves not dealing with it and hoping that I can bury my complicated feelings about him forever.

We’ll see how that goes.

I pick up, swiping with my thumb before tucking the phone against my ear. “Hey, Mom.”

“Tristan,” my mother greets me. “Are you working?”

I nod, even though she can’t see me—and even though, at this particular moment, it’s not completely true. “Always am.”

“Are you too busy for lunch?”

There’s enough on my to-do list that the answer should probably be yes, but I won’t turn her down. She needs me, and she’s family.

“No,” I lie. “Where do you want to go?”

We settle on Paulie’s, the Italian place downtown she’s always liked. I close the report, grab my jacket, and have my driver take me across town. When I arrive, I spot my mother at a corner table. She lifts a hand to wave me over.

“How are you?” I ask as I take the seat opposite her.

She offers me a tired smile, eyes a bit red around the rims. “Oh, you know. Just taking it one day at a time.”

I nod and try to catch a waiter’s eye to order a drink. It’s far too early for whiskey, so it’ll have to be coffee, something to keep me going when I get back to the office.

“I’ve been keeping busy with the charity work.” There’s a hint of pride in her voice. “It helps to have something to focus on, you know? And it’s such a good organization.”

Lately, my mother has been involved with an LA-based environmental group, helping them finance their expeditions to clear garbage from the Pacific. She’s always cared about environmental causes, and throwing herself into this work seems to be how she’s channeling her energy and coping with her grief.

“Anyway, enough about me.” She waves a hand. “How are you? How’s married life?”

I take a beat before answering, unsure how much to reveal. She’s been through enough already with my father’s passing, and I don’t want to add to it.

Besides, I’m not entirely sure how to answer. I’m closer to my mother than I was to my father, but we’ve never had the most emotionally open relationship. This family doesn’t deal in feelings and honesty.

“It’s complicated,” I admit with a shrug, opting for the truth without the details. It’s the simplest way to sum up the mess that’s come to define my marriage to Chloe.

“Complicated?” Her eyebrows rise. “Well, that’s one way to put it, I suppose.”

I can hear the curiosity in her voice. She’s digging.

I meet her gaze and shrug again. “Yeah. Complicated.”

My vague answer will only make her dig harder. My mother has always been perceptive, good at reading between the lines. I can feel her pushing for more, but I’m not sure how much I’m willing to give her yet.