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I can take a week off work if it means seeing Cecilia in bikinis, laughing on the beach, teasing me in a pool.
I type “chocolate” and the tropical island dissolves into her desktop. It’s filled with neat folders, organized and color-coordinated. Best assistant I’d ever had. Should have appreciated her more when I had her.
Even if I prefer the way I have her now.
My eyes flick from folder and file to the next one. They stop on top of a widget on the desktop. It’s a timer. A stopwatch, to be exact.
It’s set for months, weeks and days. Seven months, twenty-two days, fifteen minutes, fifty-six seconds. Above it in tiny letters are seven words.Until I get rid of St. Clair!
I watch the timer for a long time. The seconds add up. Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine. Another minute shaved off her sentence.
She’s counting the days until our marriage ends.
When I finally print her business plan and staple it, I don’t have the mind to appreciate the neat front page. All I can see is the timer.
She’d pitched her business to Carter, because she wanted his investment, not mine. She’s committed to not making our marriage messier, because she’s always planned on ending it. Following our contract.
Like I was, once.
Like I should always be.
Business and pleasure don’t mix. How many times had I heard that? How many times had my grandfather told me that?
Never hire your friends. Never work with your family.
He hadn’t mentioned girlfriends, probably because he never assumed I’d be that stupid. Well. Watch me now, Richard. You shouldn’t have died.
I dress for dinner. Dinner with Cecilia’s mother, which was something she’d asked me to do. Introducing me to her mother feels off now. Not as a step forward, but as damage control.
Shame is like a beat beneath my breastbone, hiding a more painful emotion. I’d been so poor of a boss to her that she, still, couldn’t think of me as anything more serious than a business partner or a playmate in bed.
Steven doesn’t say hello when I get in the car. Perhaps he’s learned to tell my moods by now. Or perhaps he doesn’t dare because I’m that fucking intolerable as a boss.
I tug at the sleeves of my shirt. Fucking dinner with my fucking wife who can’t wait to fucking get rid of me. Everybody leaves. Everybody has always left. Why would she be any different?
Traffic makes me late, and the blackness of my mood turns sulfur. It’s oil beneath my skin. Tar-black and sticky.
I need to shake it off or I won’t be able to play my part.
“St. Clair,” I tell the hostess at the restaurant. “My wife should already be here.”
She shines up. “Oh, yes. We gave you a great table in the back. Follow me.”
I walk through the crowded Upper East Side restaurant. I shouldn’t have booked something like this. The white tablecloths and candles scream pretentious, money, expectations. Everything her mother is not. Another strike for me.
They’re seated at a round table in the back of the restaurant.
Marguerite Myers looks like her daughter, only two decades older. They’re the spitting image of one another. One polished and dark-haired, the other wild and with hair streaked with gray at the temples, but both sharing the same wide smile.
The expression on her face makes me guess she’s not holding a grudge about our marriage. No wonder. Cecilia has probably told her she’s going to be rid of me soon enough. Only seven months and twenty-two days left.
Cecilia sees me and a private smile lights up her face. It’s not fair of her. “You made it!”
“Traffic made me late.” I press a kiss to her cheek. It’s hot and flushed beneath my lips. “I’m sorry.”
“Not a problem at all. Victor, this is my mother, Marguerite. Mom, meet Victor.”
She stands. The table had made her look taller, but now I’m looking down at a woman a head and a half shorter than me. Green eyes run me over before she extends her hand.
