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“You look lovely.” His earnest words amplify that guilt by a million. And so does his sincere expression. Both make me bite into my lip to stop myself from drunkenly spilling my confession about my savior. Billy won’t see Luke as anything less than a man trying to move in on his wife. He’ll feel helpless, and I positively hate that thought.
“Thank you.” I swallow, diverting my eyes from his. “Can I get you anything?”
“I think you should get yourself to bed, Missus,” he quips lightly, but his use of my legal title takes the edge off his playfulness. Is he reminding me of my status? Well, of course he should.
“I think you’re right,” I agree, backing out of his room.
“Lo?”
I pause, looking across at him. “Yes?”
“Come here.”
I cock my head in question at him, and he limply pats the mattress next to him. This is all very strange. “On the bed?”
“Yes, on the bed. Come on.”
The frown I’m sporting as I make my way over to my husband can’t be wiped away, no matter how hard I try. Gingerly sitting on the edge of the bed, I place my hands in my lap and start nervously twiddling my fingers. “Are you okay?” I ask, trying not to sound anxious. Does he know about Luke? I feel shame envelop me.
“I’m fine. Lie down.”
I glance at him, surprised, and he nods, encouraging me. So I follow his order and lie on my back next to him, mirroring his position. I’m stiff as a board, nervous as hell. Can he smell Luke’s scent on me? After dancing with him, walking arm in arm for an hour with him, surely I might smell like him. But Billy simply takes my hand and holds it between our bodies on the bed. “I know you love me,” he says to the ceiling. “And I’m glad you had a lovely evening.”
I drop my head to the side and stare at him, but he keeps his eyes upward. Why? Why can’t he tell me he loves me? What does that actually mean? Has he stopped loving me? Just then, he didn’t kiss me, he didn’t cuddle into me. He didn’t even look at me. He just held my hand and acknowledged that I love him. Why?
I feel no guilt now, but that’s no consolation. Because in its place, all I have is incredible sadness.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I want to put my head in my top drawer and slam it shut repeatedly, because I’m sure it would hurt a lot less than my pounding headache. I’m slumped over my desk, one hand holding a pint of water, my other resting on the mouse as I squint at my computer screen. I feel so ill. Waking up this morning next to Billy should have put a smile on my face, but I felt too rotten, and it wasn’t just my overindulgence of alcohol making me feel that way. He stirred as I slipped off the bed, but he didn’t open his eyes. I was relieved—relieved because I’m certain I must have looked so shame-ridden. He was peculiar last night. Said things that baffled me.
“Morning.” Matthew’s delighted greeting cuts through my brain and thoughts, and I abandon my water and mouse to cover my ears.
“Not so loud,” I whine, trying to get him into focus. He looks like the cat that got the cream. The memories flood back into me, straightening my back as they do. “Fiona.”
“Freda,” he says, perching on the side of my desk. “My, my, dearest Lo. You look . . . terrible.”
“Don’t sugarcoat it, will you?” I slump back in my chair as he laughs. “I think I’ve got two years’ worth of hangovers all in one go. How was the rest of your night?”
His grin could split his face. “Well, I’m wearing the same boxers as yesterday.”
I grimace. “Too much information, Matthew.”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “What about you and your friend? What was his name?”
“Luke.”
“Luke, yes. Nice chap. Did you hang around much longer?”
“A while.” I go back to my computer so I don’t have to face Matthew and risk him seeing my sudden uncomfortable face. “So, are you seeing Fiona again?”
“Freda. And, yes. She’s delightful.”
“It’s always the quiet ones,” I say without thinking, frowning at the curser on my screen. I know I’m considered a quiet one around here.
“Hey, what have you done to your arm?” Matthew prods my forearm, and I hiss, bending it to see.
“I don’t know.” I stare at the hefty purple bruise on my elbow as a mental repeat performance of myself going arse over tit in the cleaning cupboard gives me my answer. Matthew is prevented from pushing when Scarlett swans into the office, looking as pristine as usual. “How’s your mother-in-law?” I ask, shooing Matthew off my desk.
Scarlett rolls her eyes. “It was a panic attack.” She dumps a pile of papers on my desk. “How was last night?”
