Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
With a glass of water in his hand, he lowers it to the stone counter, where soft beige and creams swirl together, with flecks that gently sparkle when the light hits it just right. And I thought white countertops were fancy. Now I know this stunner exists.
Standing in a hospital gown hanging over his pants, he should look more foolish than he does. Instead, the lines of his biceps peek out from under the teal fabric, and the shape of his ass pushes through the slit in the back where he didn’t bother tying up the loose strings. Don't, Delaney. This is nothing more than a job I need to get done, like a thief in a heist movie. "This is your apartment, dear wife,” he says, interrupting my wandering thoughts.
There’s a spit to the end of his comment that echoes the hiss of a snake. It’s a good reminder that I’m in enemy territory. “I meant my first apartment. I’ve moved on up.” I tried for cheerful, but I’m not sure I’m selling it, judging by how he’s staring at me like he can see the lies oozing from my pores.
Shit.
“You sure have.” Lifting the glass again, he takes a sip, but his gaze stays firmly on me.
The large open space is modern yet filled with warmth, encompassing his kitchen and living room, as well as an expansive dining table perfect for large dinner parties. The area aligns with a balcony, divided by glass doors that I bet open wide, seamlessly bringing the outside in or vice versa. Those dinner parties must be pretty spectacular.
I'm afraid to move or speak until I know what I should say. Do I fess up and get the heck out of here? I should. Then I remember the legal paperwork I signed to get him discharged and the ramifications of my gut reactions. My gaze swings to the tired expression on my husband's face, and my resolve crumbles. It's an omission. He wouldn't have been hit by that car if I hadn't tried to get in the last word, and I could have been scot-free if his friends or family had shown up for him. But they didn't.
Not to mention my family's restaurant. God, I'm so screwed if he catches on. I can do this. How hard can it be to play the role of the doting wife until the deadline passes next month? Convincing myself is the easy part. Convincing him is a whole other story. I'm a terrible liar, but if he hasn't figured it out yet, this ludicrous plan is still possible.
There are only two ways to find out—try to pull this off or run now.
I walk toward the back doors, needing out from under the interrogation of his gaze to think more clearly. Spotting the lock, I move across the room like I do this every day. I pull the latch, turn the bolt, and then slide the door just enough to fit through. The sounds of the city are alive, and even at this height, it’s loud with horns and sirens blaring in the distance. Peace is also found in the air up here. Night has fallen like a blanket around me, wrapping me in connection to the city that raised me. Though it was nowhere near this fancy neighborhood, I feel calmer breathing the same air as my stomping grounds. Under the cover of darkness, I find hope that this plan might work.
“Do you have instructions for me?”
His voice is deceptively calm, almost candid in tone like the lie of marriage to me might not be so far-fetched. I can’t let my guard down. From what little I know of him, he’s never to be trusted.
Leaning my back against the concrete railing, I throw out a question I heard almost every day of my life from my mom to my dad to test if this is even possible. Seems like a good generic thing to ask. “The dishwasher probably needs emptying.”
His brows tug together as his stare hardens. “What does that have to do with anything?”
I stand straight, abandoning the rail to stand up to him. “You asked for instructions, so I gave you some.”
Annoyance sends his eyes shooting into the air to the side of my head. He takes a deep breath, then looks at me again. “Doctor’s instructions. In case you’ve forgotten, I have a concussion and broken arm.” Pointing to his eye, he adds, “A black eye.”
“Oh.” I slide my eyes over his injuries. “Right.” I unzip my purse that I’m still carrying around like someone who doesn’t live here and pull out a folded piece of paper. “It didn’t seem complicated, except for showering.” I walk toward him with the paper held out in front of me.
“Okay, what does it say other than don’t get the cast wet and ice the eye?” He takes it, but then frustration pinches his lips together, whitening them. Glancing back at me, he asks, “Do you mind unfolding it for me?”