Christopher turns and leans a hip on the counter, running his tongue along the seam of his lips, checking me out without shame. And God, the man is so gorgeous, he turns my mouth dry. His hair is slightly damp from his shower, full and dark, styled with fingers. Tattoos peek out at the edges of his white dress shirt. His smile is adoring and wolfish and male.
This man does not sell insurance.
That fact hits me in the face like a stack of overdue bills.
“Are there women in your office?”
I’m not sure why I ask this. Maybe because it’s a roundabout way into a conversation about his work life, which I’m sure…yes, I’m suddenly sure he’s lying about.
Oh God, my husband is lying to me. Why?
A chill crawls up my arms, making the hair stand on end.
Christopher rears back a little at the question, laughs. “Sure. Why are you asking?”
“You’re very attractive. Don’t they…show interest?”
His blue eyes sparkle with humor. “You can’t actually be jealous, Jolie.” When I say nothing, his humor winks out, replaces with visible panic. His coffee cup rattles when he sets it back down on the counter. “Did I do something to make you doubt me? Tell me what I did. I’ll never do it again.”
I shake my head, wanting to reassure him, despite my growing suspicions. “No, you didn’t do anything.”
He’s already coming toward me, capturing me against his chest. My lord, I can hear his heart slamming against my ear at a thousand beats a minute. This is not a typical reaction. It’s not. All I can do is stare wide-eyed at nothing while he rocks me, kisses my hair. “I’m in love with my wife. I live and breathe and ache and fuck for you. Only you. I see nothing else. Nobody else. Please don’t say things like that, Jolie. You might as well put a knife in my chest.”
“Okay.” I wrap my arms around him. “I’m sorry.”
Why am I apologizing?
I don’t know. Except there is an intuition, a positivity that he is not lying about loving me. About living for me. Aching on my behalf. Those parts are true. My heart is backing me up on that, sighing with contentment at his words. Loving his embrace as much as ever.
It’s obvious that my concerns aren’t going to be assuaged via conversation.
Not when my feelings for him overwhelm me into stopping. Don’t rock the boat. You’re happy, satisfied and safe. Why look for holes?
Because I was fooled once. Pride won’t let it happen again.
And there’s also the question of why? Why does he have to lie?
What is he hiding?
“Are we okay?” He pulls back, scanning my face with concern. “I don’t want to leave for work with something between us.”
I force a laugh. “It was silly. I walked in and you looked so handsome, I thought, the women at your office must wish me dead.”
He says nothing, simply studying me with a crease between his brows.
Trying to make things light, I poke him in the ribs. “If I worked in an office with a bunch of people you’d never met, you’d wonder. You’d feel that natural jealousy, too, wouldn’t you?”
“You have no idea, Jolie,” he says, calmly—and I see it again. That same fleeting flash of wildness flicker in the depth of his eyes.
I keep my smile, though my pulse turns skittish.
I keep it until he slides a hand up the rear of my dress, over the right cheek of my backside and into my panties. “I could stay home.” He kneads me firmly, turning my breath to hot puffs of air. “Spend the next eight hours fucking the doubt away.” He breathes hard against my mouth. “I could start by licking that sweet, little cunt.”
Yes.
My body, heart and libido say yes.
But my brain rebels. I can’t. I can’t surrender to this insane attraction any longer.
Not without the truth.
“No, I um…” I back away but reach up to fix his tie to soften the rejection. “I was actually thinking of pulling out my sketch book and working on some designs. You know, update my portfolio so I can think about interviewing again someday soon? I’m getting there.” I wiggle my fingers at him. “I’m getting itchy to work. That’s good, right?”
Slowly, he nods.
I go up on my toes and kiss him. “I’ll be right here waiting when you get home.”
“Okay.”
He seems hesitant to leave, but finally, he walks out the door.
And then I follow him.
7
Evan
I’m not surprised when she follows me.
When she walked into the kitchen this morning, I knew I’d been made. Maybe not completely, but my behavior over the last couple of days pulled back the curtain too far.
Watching the little blue dot of her car move on the map on the screen of my phone, trailing so close to mine, takes bite after bite out of my sanity…and now I’m even beginning to unnerve myself. Because there is a part of me that wants to yank that curtain back all the way. A part of me that wants to show her everything. Show her how much she has been worshipped for the last two months, ever since that night I saw her on the news.
I want to offer my sick devotion up to her on a platter.
I want to show her Evan and have her love me anyway.
That’s not going to happen.
You’re delusional if you believe she could love you.
Not Christopher.
I bare my teeth, swipe at the perspiration forming on my forehead. Look in the rearview mirror and see her four cars behind. What choice do I have but to show her the real me? To step into the light? I’m supposed to be going to an office job right now. I could go to the building I’d designated as my fictional office. I could duck inside and possibly stave off her suspicions a little longer, but I can’t keep the two worlds from colliding forever.
Maybe I should have tried to work a real job. If I’d done so, who knows how long this ruse might have lasted? But I know deep down, I never would have been able to maintain it. This need to follow my wife, to watch her every move, owns me. Working behind a desk and indulging this obsession with Jolie could never have happened simultaneously.
I’m had.
I’m caught.
I saw the knowledge in her eyes that something is wrong and I can’t lie to her anymore. This conscience she inflicted on me won’t allow for it. The guilt gnaws at me now every time we’re together. I have to come clean and hope like hell she doesn’t hate me.
What if she does?
With that question lingering in my mind, I drive another two miles and turn in to a familiar parking lot. One of the places I come when I’m supposed to be selling insurance.
Self-storage.
It’s a stucco, five-story building filled with ten-by-ten units.
I park my car and go inside, as if I don’t see her pulling into the lot. As if this heart, the one I didn’t realize I possessed until I saw her, is about to shatter.
The door to the main building is open, only the inside units are locked, so I enter quickly and wait below the first stairwell. It’s not lost on me that I’m treating my wife like one of my targets and it fills me with self-loathing. So much that I slam my head into the cinderblock wall while lying in wait, welcoming the rush of pain. The blood that wells up and trickles down my forehead—and then, there she is.