Page 85 of The Temporary Bride

“Where to, sir?”

I swallow. I’m in no shape to attend a meeting right now. If push comes to shove, I know my secretary can call up one of my brothers to attend in my place. Reid wouldn’t mind doing it.

“Downtown,” I mutter. “I need to clear my head.”

Around twenty minutes later, I find myself in a bar. It’s quiet in the middle of the afternoon, dim and cool, the kind of place where a man can sit alone with a drink and nobody is going to give a fuck about it.

I take a stool, order a whiskey without looking at what they have, and down it as soon as the bartender sets it in front of me.

My chest warms immediately, and I let myself focus on that instead of anything else. I tilt the empty glass between my fingers, dragging in a breath and letting it out slowly as everything I learned today sits in my chest like a lump of cement.

My father, who I thought I at least partly understood, was in fact practically a stranger to me. He fought cancer alone when I was eight years old and missing him and being told he was traveling for work. He watched it come back and kept that to himself too, right up until the end. Then he got in his car and headed up the PCH before driving off the road, leaving my mother never knowing if it was an accident or not.

Clenching my jaw, I tap the bar and lift my chin at the bartender.

He refills my glass, and I toss it back in one swallow, feeling the whiskey burn all the way down.

Chapter 29

Chloe

I see Iris the second I walk into the gym, which at this point I should just expect. She’s over by the free weights with two of her friends, all three of them in coordinated workout sets, her red hair pulled into a high ponytail, looking like she came here to be seen rather than to exercise.

She notices me at the same moment I catch sight of her, and her eyes do their usual sweep, quick and assessing, before she leans toward one of her friends and says something with a small smile that she times perfectly for me to catch the tail end of without being able to fully make out the words.

I clench my jaw and keep walking toward the treadmills.

We’ve been running into each other here for weeks now, and every time there’s something. A comment delivered just loudly enough to reach me. A look followed by a laugh that comes out slightly mocking. Small, precisely aimed digs at me that are impossible to call out directly because she’s too good at this game for that.

The first few times it happened, I let it get under my skin, but I’m determined not to let her keep throwing me off balance. So I pointedly ignore her, putting my earbuds in and finding a treadmill where I can’t see her and won’t have to listen to her gossiping with her friends.

I do my workout, then shower and leave quickly, annoyed that what was once my refuge doesn’t feel like a place I want to linger in anymore.

The car takes me home along a coastal road, the ocean showing up in dark flashes between the houses as we wind up toward the property. I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes. By the time we turn down the driveway, I’m half asleep and thinking about nothing except the comfy couch that’s waiting for me.

The house is quiet when I let myself in. Tristan isn’t home yet, probably still at work. I head upstairs to swap my workout clothes for an oversized sweatshirt and leggings, then pad back down barefoot.

There’s leftover pasta from two nights ago in the fridge. I heat it up, eat standing at the island while I scroll through my phone, then grab the novel I’ve been reading off the side table and settle onto the couch.

I make it about three chapters deep before my eyelids start getting heavy, and at some point, I doze off.

When the front door opens several hours later, I jolt awake.

For a second, I blink at the ceiling, fuzzy and disoriented. Then I grab my phone to check the time.

God. It’s almost two in the morning.

I clamber off the couch as Tristan walks into the living room—and whatever I was about to say to him dies in my throat.

His eyes are bloodshot, his hair a tangled mess, and his clothes are rumpled. I can see the strain etched into every line of his face. He’s clearly drunk, but it’s not just that. He looks wrecked. He looks like he might have been crying.

He stumbles forward, and without hesitation, I rush to his side, wrapping an arm around him to steady him. The familiar scent of alcohol hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the salt-tinged breeze that drifts in from the open door.

Tristan’s gaze meets mine, and I see the turmoil reflected in his eyes—pain, need, and something else, something I can’t quite grasp. His voice is raw with emotion as he speaks, his words a whisper that cuts through the heavy silence between us.

“You’re here,” he murmurs. He sounds… surprised, almost. Like he was expecting to arrive to an empty house.

I swallow. “Of course I’m here. I’m your wife.”