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Chapter One
Luna
My nails click against the wood table in sync with the ticking of the clock as I look at the time, again. 9:45. I guess those 7:30 dinner reservations were an afterthoughtnow.
I decide to send another text, hoping that this time I will get a response.
Me: Can you at least text me back so I know you’re not dead in a ditch?
I wait for a few minutes, staring at the screen for those three little dots to appear. Nothing. The text shows delivered but not read.
I let out an exasperated sigh and decide it’s time to peel myself out of the dress I bought special for tonight. But just as I stand from my chair, I hear the garage door start to roll open.
I make my way through the kitchen and into the laundry room where I wait for the door to open. The engine of the car rumbles as it pulls in. The steady purring stops when the car is turned off. A door slams, shoes clack, and finally the doorknob turns before the door swings open.
“Holy shit, Luna,” Roman says with a startle. “You scared the shit outta me. What are you doing?” He eyes me up and down and I wait for recognition to slap him in the face.
I stand there with my arms crossed and my very practiced, very used, resting bitch face. I purse my lips and narrow my eyes but still, he says nothing and just stares.
when I don’t speak he mumbles, “whatever,” and moves past me.
I stomp after him as he makes his way inside. He enters the kitchen and moves to the refrigerator, opening it and grabbing a water, cracking the lid and taking three big gulps before pulling it from his lips. when his eyes met mine again I decide it’s time to clue the asshole in.
“So, do you remember what was supposed to happen tonight?” I ask.
He looks at me confused and twists his face. “No. Why are you so dressed up?”
“Nothing comes to mind?”
“No, Luna. I’d rather you just tell me than play these little games. Be a nagging bitch and just get it over with,” he sneers.
“A nagging bitch? Are you serious right now, Roman? If I’m a nag it’s only because someone made me that way.”
“Oh god. Here we go again,” he groans and walks toward the stairs.
I follow after him and scowl at the back of his head.
God, I just want to punch him in the throat.
“Are the kids in bed?” He asks as we pass their rooms.
“No, Roman, they’re not. They’re at my parents. Remember?” My tone is snarky and bitter. Just like my heart, lately.
He crosses the threshold into our room and straight to the closet wherehe takes off one shoe then the other and places them on the shelf.
“Where were you?” I continue with my interrogation.
He sighs. “I was at Dumonts. You know that. We went for a couple of drinks to shake off a tough week.”
He undoes his pants and peels them down his legs. His thighs are muscular and such a contradiction to the professional and proper suits he wears daily.
“Hmm. Another one, huh? Last week it was to celebrate someone’s birthday. The week before that it was guys night. then there was the end of a case, a new hire, a promotion. There’s always a reason,” I snap.
“Yeah well, you do your girls night thing all the time, too,” he argues back.
“I have a girls nightoncea month. And it’s usually at one of our houses so that the kids can play since I always seem to have them. And I have maybe one glass of wine. I never get drunk.”
“You always have the kids,”he rolls his eyes. “Well they’re kind of your job. I have an actual job where I get paid so I can afford this giant house and luxury cars you adore, and the fucking multitude of activities the kids are in.”
