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The old gangster heads toward Nolan’s house. “You’ll get used to it. He’s not so bad, you know.”
I want to tell him to go to hell, but instead curiosity gets the better of me. “How long have you worked for him?”
“Nearly eight years now.”
“And how is he? As a boss, I mean?”
Roger tilts his head to the side. “Fair,” he says after a pause. “But he’s got a temper. You don’t want to fuck with him when he’s angry.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I stare out the window, the city flashing past. “Does he do this often? Marry girls he barely knows?”
He laughs. “All the time.”
I glance over, frowning. A strange jealousy pings in my throat. “Really?”
“Not at all.” He grins at me in the rearview. “Honestly, you’re the first girl I’ve seen more than once.”
I slump back slightly. “That wasn’t funny.” But I’m trying to make sense of what he just told me.
Nolan’s not a saint. He hasn’t saved himself for me and I wouldn’t have expected him to. Except for the past eight years, he hasn’t been in a single long-term, committed relationship.
Until me.
Which doesn’t make sense. We were a one-night stand. A good one-night stand, but still, it was never meant to last.
Instead, he nudged me around until I ended up marrying him.
What’s the goal here? What’s his long-term game? Is it really as simple as what he says—he’s looking for meaning in this life?
I try one more question. “Does Nolan ever strike you as, I don’t know, particularly philosophical?”
Roger pulls the car over in front of the townhouse. “Nolan’s never struck me as a particularly deep-thinking man before. He likes pretty girls, good whiskey, and money. But that just described the majority of men.”
“Thanks, Roger. You’ve been so helpful.”
“Happy I can be of service.” I push open the door and he waves. “See you in the morning, kid.”
I sigh and head up to the door. I stand there awkwardly for a second, not sure if I knock or what, until the security system crackles to life. “It’s open. Come in.”
Nolan’s voice.
Always in control.
I head inside. The kitchen’s empty. I pour myself some water then go upstairs, taking it slow, until I reach the bedroom.
Nolan’s sitting up with his phone in his lap. A basketball game’s on TV, playing on mute. He’s clearly ignoring it. I pause, looking in at him, my heart suddenly racing into my throat.
This is my husband.
This is my bedroom.
“Good evening, wife,” he says, trying not to grin at me.
“Nolan.” I won’t give him the pleasure of saying what he wants. “So, uh, how’s this work?” I gesture at him. “We just get into bed together and go to sleep?”
“I’m fairly certain that’s how most people do it.”
“Don’t be a wiseass. You know this is deeply weird.”
