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I’m usually up before the sun, checking my phone for direct messages from followers and potential sponsors. I also set aside at least an hour twice daily to respond to many of the comments left on my most recent posts.
Hiring a social media manager would take all of that out of my hands, but it took years to build my brand, so I feel my followers deserve a personal response from me.
I scoop my phone up from my nightstand. I only glance at the screen to catch the time before I silence the alarm. Then, I place the phone back down.
An unexpected sigh of relief escapes me because I haven’t done that in a very long time. Even when I’ve spent the night with a man, I’ve often rushed to the washroom to check my phone while he slept in my bed.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. A shiver races over me once the cool morning air hits my skin.
I always sleep in silk shorts and a T-shirt. The silk shorts were an extravagance that I invested in when I was in college. Bella gave me a gift card for Liore Lingerie as a holiday gift, so I marched down there the day after Christmas and bought a red pair of shorts. Since then, I’ve added dozens to my collection. Today, I’m wearing a white pair and a pink T-shirt emblazoned with the name of a sponsor who produced a best-selling video game three years ago.
My daily routine is to make a coffee before I shower, and since I doubt that my roommate is up yet, I don’t see a reason to change that now.
I grab a short, fluffy white robe from the foot of the bed and wrap it around me. I won’t give in to the temptation to turn the heat on since the vast amount of sunlight that floods my apartment once it has risen will raise the temperature in no time.
I walk over to my bedroom door and take a deep breath.
It’s been a struggle to sleep knowing that my husband is across the hall. I half-expected Daniel to find another place to stay by now. There isn’t a shortage of five-star hotels in Manhattan, and I happen to know that he has a handful of cousins in the city, but since his work should wrap up soon, he’ll be on his way back to California before I know it.
With a detour to Las Vegas, of course.
I exit my bedroom and pad down the hallway barefoot, headed straight for my coffee maker. I only make it a few steps before the aroma of a freshly brewed pot hits me.
Instead of turning around and racing to hide in my bedroom, I let my craving take the reins, and I keep walking toward the irresistible smell, even though I know that the treasure that awaits me won’t be just a cup of coffee, but I’ll likely see my husband, too.
Butterflies take flight in my stomach at that prospect.
Does he think I’m still fast asleep? Will I stumble on him wearing only boxer briefs and nothing else? Or does he sleep in the nude? Is there a chance I’m about to see my husband without a stitch of clothing on?
I up the pace of my steps, but the anticipation of seeing Daniel in half or all-naked glory comes crashing down in a puddle of disappointment.
All that’s waiting for me is a pot of coffee.
“Dammit,” I say under my breath. “He must be showering in his bathroom.”
I listen carefully, but the telltale sound of the old pipes creaking as water runs in the second bathroom isn’t there. The apartment is shrouded in silence, save for the pounding of my heart.
I walk toward the cupboard to reach for a mug, but an unexpected sight stops me partway.
I smile as I spot a piece of paper next to a small pink box.
Glancing over my shoulder to see if Daniel is in view, I shake off the nervous energy flowing through me and reach for the paper.
My first name is scribbled in masculine handwriting on the single piece of folded paper.
I unfold it and read the note written in black ink:
Mrs. Calvetti-Lawson (Compromise is always the key to a good marriage.),
I had to pull a few strings and hand over a lot of cash, but I got you something extra special for breakfast this morning.
Enjoy every bite.
Mr. Calvetti-Lawson (This compromise thing works both ways.)
P.S. I’m heading to Boston for a couple of days. I needed to be out of the door by 6 AM. It was a last minute client request, but we’ll talk about the return trip to Vegas as soon as I’m back.
A sudden wave of sadness mixes with a strange sense of relief as I read the note again.
