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I wonder when William will get home. Probably not for another two hours.
I wonder if he has a woman on the side. My blood pressure rises at the thought alone. He’s in his midthirties. He likely still has a sex drive.
But when would he even have time for an affair? He’s at work all the time.
Maybe he’s screwing his assistant. Turning her over the desk and fucking her with his suit on.
I have to blow out slow breaths until the random image leaves my mind.
There’s no reason to assume any such thing. And even if it were true, it wouldn’t have anything to do with me.
I’m not the one under contract to marry him.
He wouldn’t be betraying me.
I just don’t like the idea of him betraying anyone.
I’ve almost succeeded at clearing my mind when the bathroom door—which I closed, as I always do when I take a bath—suddenly swings open.
William stands in the doorway, one hand on his tie like he was in the process of loosening it before he froze. He’s staring at me, as surprised and dumbfounded as I am.
“Hey!” I manage to say, pushing over more bubbles on the top of the water to make sure my body is suitably masked.
“Sorry.” He blinks. Stares some more. Then blinks again. “Sorry. I thought you were out.”
“Why would I be out?”
He frowns. “Because it’s Friday. You’re always out on Friday evenings.”
I didn’t know this about Amber. Maybe I should have. “If you didn’t expect me to be here, then why did you call to tell me you’re working late?”
“Seemed like the decent thing to do.” He’s finally managed to pull his tie looser, although he doesn’t pull it off altogether. I see his eyes dip down to the water and then back to my face.
The quick look gets me kind of excited, which is absolutely ridiculous. “Oh.”
“I’ll leave you al—”
“It’s fine,” I say with a sigh. “You can come in. It’s your bathroom, after all.” The toilet is enclosed with a door, so if he needs to use that, he can still do so in privacy.
He hesitates briefly before coming in. He apparently doesn’t need to use the bathroom. He shrugs out of his suit jacket and then splashes a lot of water on his face.
“What time is it?” I ask when he picks up a hand towel to dry his face and neck. “I thought you were working until ten or eleven.”
“It’s almost nine thirty. We finished up earlier than I thought.”
Again, I’m hit with the image of him fucking a faceless woman over the desk.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, leaning against the long vanity countertop.
“What do you mean?”
“It looked like something’s bothering you.”
Damn. I’ve got to get control of my thoughts better than this. I’m going to blow all the work I’ve put into this ridiculous scheme.
“Oh no. It’s nothing. I just had an itch.” It’s the first excuse that crosses my mind.
He pauses like he’s waiting.
