- Book info
- Sample
- Media
- Author updates
- Lists
Synopsis
“Heart-searing, sensual, and life affirming.” ―EMILY HENRY, #1 New York Times bestselling author
Soledad Barnes has her life all planned out. Because, of course, she does. She plans everything. She designs everything. She fixes everything. She’s a domestic goddess who's never met a party she couldn't host or a charge she couldn't lead. The one with all the answers and the perfect vinaigrette for that summer salad. But none of her varied talents can save her when catastrophe strikes, and the life she built with the man who was supposed to be her forever, goes poof in a cloud of betrayal and disillusion.
But there is no time to pout or sulk, or even grieve the life she lost. She's too busy keeping a roof over her daughters' heads and food on the table. And in the process of saving them all, Soledad rediscovers herself. From the ashes of a life burned to the ground, something bold and new can rise.
But then an unlikely man enters the picture—the forbidden one, the one she shouldn't want but can't seem to resist. She's lost it all before and refuses to repeat her mistakes. Can she trust him? Can she trust herself?
After all she's lost . . .and found . . .can she be brave enough to make room for what could be?
For fans of Tia Williams and Colleen Hoover comes a deeply moving and personal novel about sacrifice, self-reliance, and finding true happiness from “one of the finest romance writers of our age.” ―Entertainment Weekly
Release date: March 5, 2024
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 384
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
Reader buzz
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
Author updates
Close
This Could Be Us
Kennedy Ryan
Three Years Later
Tonight is really important, Sol.”
I glance up from my jewelry tray to stare at my husband’s back as he strides into our walk-in closet.
“It’s a company Christmas party,” I reply dryly. “Not a board meeting.”
“May as well be,” Edward mutters, knotting the tie his mother gave him last Christmas.
God, I hate that tie. It’s plagued with red oversized polka dots that closely resemble drops of blood.
“Delores Callahan will be there,” he continues, a warning in the tone and the look he aims over his shoulder at me. “Let’s not have a repeat of last time.”
“The woman asked.” I grimace, remembering the last conversation I had with the daughter of CalPot’s CEO.
“Pretty sure she didn’t expect a Yelp review of our own product. Much less a scathing one.”
“It was not scathing.” I cross our bedroom to join him in the closet and flip through his ties, which I’ve organized by color. “It was honest. I told her the new pan only accommodates three average-size chicken breasts, and I’d love it even more if I could cook four at a time.”
“And the heat thing?” Irritation pinches the corners of his green eyes.
I shrug, plucking an embroidered Armani tie from the red section. “Well, it doesn’t heat evenly. I practically have to turn the thing every few minutes just to get the meat cooked all the way through. They’re one of the biggest cookware companies around. Aren’t pans kinda supposed to be their thing?”
“Just saying I already have Cross up my ass. I don’t need Delores Callahan after me too.”
“Cross is the new accountant?”
“Director of accounting, yeah.”
I stand in front of him and brush his fingers aside, tugging the awful tie loose and tossing it to the floor. “Not this tie, babe. Trust me.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so.” I knot the preferred tie. “Besides, this one matches the red dress you asked me to wear tonight.”
“I love that dress on you.”
“I like the gold better.”
“The gold shows too much. It’s a Christmas party, not a strip show. I’m not giving Cross room to criticize anything tonight. I don’t want to draw attention to us. I’m telling you, Sol. That guy has been after me ever since the day he showed up at CalPot.”
“Hasn’t he only been there six months? Maybe he’s still settling in.”
“It’s been a year.” Edward scowls. “A year of him watching me like a hawk and sniffing around my department all the time.”
“Let him look. You don’t have anything to hide.”
The expression that crosses Edward’s face is not so much a frown as a… twitch. Some tiny disruption in the symmetry of his handsome features, gone almost before it could be detected. Except we’ve been married sixteen years, together for eighteen. I make it my business to detect everything concerning my husband and our three girls. I practically know when this man loses an eyelash, I’m so attuned to his moods and emotions. Or at least I usually am. Lately he’s been harder to decipher and predict.
“Yeah, well,” he says. “I don’t need some geeky bean counter riding me.”
I rise up on my toes to press my lips to his ear.
“I’ve got an idea.” I grab the hand hanging limply at his side and place it on the naked curve of my butt in the skimpy thong I hoped he would have noticed by now. “Instead of thinking so much about Cross riding you, think about how I’ll ride you when we get home.”
He swallows, and that twitch happens again. Here and gone like a tumbleweed blowing across his face before I can catch it. He drops his hand from me and walks deeper into our closet, approaching his shelves of custom-made shoes.
“Damn, Sol,” he says, his tone cool. “I tell you I’m stressed at work, and you go straight to sex.”
I stiffen and force myself to reply evenly. “I didn’t mean to offend your delicate sensibilities, but when you haven’t fucked your wife in nearly two months, she tends to bring it up every once in a while.”
“It hasn’t been two months.”
“It has.”
“If you’re that horny,” he says, turning to glower at me, “you have a battery-operated solution in your bedside table.”
“Oh, believe me, it’s been earning its keep.” I practically stomp over to my side of the closet. “And if you thought you’d make me feel ashamed with that snide comment, sorry to disappoint you. I have needs, and I’m not embarrassed by how I meet them when you won’t.”
Something has fundamentally shifted in our marriage the last two years. Every couple experiences slumps, ruts. We are no exception, but it’s more than that. I’ve felt Edward slipping away from this marriage, from this family. I’ve tried everything to stop it, but my arms feel emptier, our bed feels colder, every day. I can’t hold off a landslide by myself, and lately Edward seems content to watch it all fall down.
I turn away from the row of designer dresses to find his hard stare. “I love sex, Edward. I always have. You used to like it too.”
“Can we not do this right now?” His words are graveled with irritation. “I have enough on my plate without having to think about satisfying my sex-starved wife.”
“That’s unfair. Why are you trying to make me feel bad for wanting to save our sex life? To revive this marriage? I understand if—”
“You don’t understand a damn thing.”
“I understand if,” I resume, carefully laying out my next words, “you’re having trouble in that area. Sometimes as men age—”
“I’m forty, Sol,” he fires back. “Not eighty. You ever think maybe the problem isn’t with me, but with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Women’s bodies change.”
“I’m in the best shape of my life.” I hear the note of defensiveness creeping into my voice and start again. “I do yoga and Pilates a few times a week. If anything, I’m trying not to lose this.”
I grab my generous ass. A gift from my abuela, it ain’t going anywhere anytime soon. It is time-tested and exercise-resistant, and I like it that way.
“I don’t mean the outside.” He reaches for his suit jacket. “You have pushed out three kids. Things get loose down there. What’s that thing women do to tighten up? Vaginal rejuvenation or whatever? Maybe that’s where you start reviving our sex life.”
It’s a sucker punch that knocks the breath out of me. I go still, my hand hovering over the red dress. I can’t believe he said that, and with such deliberate aim.
“Your three kids,” I reply, making sure the wobble I feel inside doesn’t make my voice waver. “I pushed out your three daughters. They literally had to stitch my vagina back together after the last one. Until you’ve known the pain of a third-degree tear, don’t complain to me about my loose pussy. Go to this party by your damn self.”
I stride out of the closet and into the bedroom, snatching my robe from the bench at the foot of our bed. Slipping my arms through the sleeves, I sit, bracing my hands on the bench to hide their shaking.
When did Edward turn cruel? He wasn’t always like this. Maybe I was so fooled by his brightness, by the beauty of him, that I overlooked this ugly underside. He was ambitious, yes, and sometimes careless, but something is rotting inside him now. It’s only lately I’ve smelled the stench.
He walks back into the bedroom in bare feet and with measured steps. The look he angles at me from under his brows is careful, calculating. I know this man. He needs me on his arm tonight at this party and is wondering what he should say to get me there.
He squats in front of me, taking my hands in his. “Look, I shouldn’t have said—”
“No, but you did.” I hold his gaze, not softening mine even though he appears contrite.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “You know I’ve been under so much pressure at the office—”
“That can’t be your excuse for everything, Edward. For being home less with me and the girls. For working all the time. For saying your assistant’s name in your sleep.”
His head snaps up. “I explained about that. Nothing’s going on between Amber and me. We’ve been working so hard on these projects that I—”
“Dream about her?” I cock my head to the side, snatching my hands away from him to fold my arms across my chest.
“No, I…” He shakes his head, his contrition and patience wearing thin. “We don’t have time to rehash this. Not right now. It only happened a couple of times. God, are you holding me responsible for my subconscious? I told you it was nothing. Can we just go?”
He reaches for my hands again, looking at me with pleading eyes.
“Sol, baby, I need you.”
I stand, glaring down at him, still not ready to release my indignation. “Then act like it.”
I leave him there and head back into the closet, flick through the clothes until I find what I’m looking for. The one-shouldered gold dress I wanted to wear shimmers among the blacks, grays, and other more muted colors. I’ve never worn it, but I remember how it cuts low over my breasts and rides high up my legs. Letting the robe fall to the floor, I wrench the dress from the hanger and yank it over my head, showing little consideration for the delicate material.
“I thought we agreed on the red,” Edward says with a frown.
“You like the red dress so much?” I shove my feet into the five-inch stilettos I coveted online for months before breaking down and buying. “You wear it.”
I leave the room in a flounce of gold and fury, taking the stairs at a breakneck pace, slowing when I realize I could literally break my neck in these heels.
“Wow, Mom.” My daughter Lupe whistles from the bottom of the stairs. “You look great.”
“Thank you, honey.” I pause to kiss her cheek. At fifteen, she already stands a few inches above me, but the heels give me a slight advantage. “I have a feeling I’ll regret these shoes, though.”
“There’s still time to change.”
“And waste all this glam?” I kick up one heel and force myself to smile even though I’m still seething from the confrontation with Edward. “No way. Looking this good might be worth losing my pinkie toe at the end of the night. Beauty is pain sometimes.”
“I’ll remember that for prom.”
My smile drops and I slap my forehead. “Ugh. Can we not talk about prom right now? I’m not ready.”
“You’ve got plenty of time to adjust. Maybe no one will ask me.”
My daughter is so pretty she gets stopped on the street by modeling scouts. We both know someone will muster the courage to ask her, but I’m not ready for her to grow up. Next will be college, and I’ll probably have to get several cats and a dog to survive that.
“Make sure your sisters do their homework,” I say, diverting the conversation. I was already furious. Why add melancholy to the emotional mix before we even arrive at this party?
The thud of Edward’s footsteps descending the stairs revives my anger, slipping a rod down my back. When his hand curls around my hip, I barely resist the urge to slap it away.
“We’ll be home late, baby girl,” he tells Lupe. “Call if you need anything.”
“Okay, Daddy.” She flicks a look between us, a slight frown knitting her brows.
My three girls are my greatest joy. Lupe looks the least like me with the red hair she inherited from my father, Edward’s green eyes, and her own pale-gold skin, but her temperament is the most like mine. Overachieving. Naturally nurturing and deeply intuitive. If there’s a ripple in the water, she feels it. A tsunami is happening between her parents, and I think she senses the tension in me. With a conscious effort to relax my muscles, I pull away from Edward and head for the garage.
“Love you, Lupe,” I call over my shoulder, not waiting to see if Edward follows. “Watch your sisters, and don’t wait up.”
The thirty-minute drive to Brett Callahan’s house is quiet and frosted with tension. Neither of us breaks the brittle silence. The first time we attended one of these holiday parties at the CEO’s sprawling mansion a few years ago, Edward had just started at CalPot. We barely concealed our awe, elbowing each other and trying not to gape at the ostentatious surroundings.
“I’ll get us one of these someday, Sol,” he vowed, eyeing the high ceilings and priceless art decorating the walls.
I laughed it off because, though we live a comfortable life, in many ways a privileged life in Skyland, one of Atlanta’s most desirable in-town communities, we’ll probably never have a place like that. Brett Callahan’s palatial home is practically an estate north of Atlanta. I always find myself squirming when we come this far north of the city, places that less than half a century ago didn’t welcome people who looked like me.
I pull down the visor to check my makeup. My skin glows cinnamon gold in the mirror light, which emphasizes subtle hollows under my cheekbones, my glossed lips, my favorite set of false lashes, and the hair, pressed tonight from its usual springy curls into a silky fall around my shoulders.
Edward shows his license to the security officer at the gate and passes through. He pushes out a long breath when we pull into the large circular driveway.
“I can’t believe you wore that dress.” He frowns over at me in the passenger seat, the length of my leg exposed by the high slit.
“There’s nothing wrong with it.” I smooth the silky material over my knees. “I don’t understand why you’re so uptight about tonight and this Cross guy.”
“I know it doesn’t make sense.” Edward reaches across to grab my hand and turns to me as the valet hired for the night approaches. “But trust me when I say Cross is not our friend. Just stay off his radar. Can you do that for me, Sol?”
He strokes the back of my hand, and my heart softens a little at the first sign of tenderness he’s shown me in days. Maybe I am underestimating the pressure he’s under. This Cross guy must be a real ogre to get my usually unflappable husband this flustered.
“I said I can. I will.” I squeeze his hand, catching his stare and smiling. “And I promise not to tell Delores Callahan her nonstick coating starts flaking after only a few uses.”
He huffs a short laugh, shakes his head, and opens the door to hand over the keys.
Once inside, I note the few changes they’ve made to the decor since I was here for last year’s party. A new crystal light fixture. Slightly more garish wallpaper in the foyer. New window treatments? I can’t remember if they were this tacky before. To have all this money and so little taste. Tragic, really.
“Edward, good to see you.” Delores Callahan greets us before we can join the party in the large room where everyone is mingling. Her dark hair is tightly curled tonight, and she seems not quite at home in a floral dress, her wonderful wide shoulders and forceful personality pushing against the seams and straining the collar.
“Delores,” Edward says, his smile stiff and his hand slightly tightening on my elbow. “Haven’t seen you since the sales meeting weeks ago. We’ve missed you around the office.”
“Been up in Canada,” Delores responds, her eyes gleaming with sharp intelligence as she watches my husband. “They’re really buzzing up there about your White Glove program. Several of our customers say they hear great things and want in. Can’t believe we didn’t think of something like this before.”
“You know me.” Edward practically preens. “Always looking for ways to innovate.”
I barely catch my eye roll and keep my smile fixed in place.
“Who’d have thought someone would pay that much just to feel like they’re getting the VIP treatment?” Delores shakes her head, the grudging admiration clear on her face. “And the retreats? Stroke of genius.”
I was skeptical when Edward first introduced the White Glove program for CalPot customers who purchased the most product and spent above a certain threshold. They would get special agents assigned to their accounts who were always available for questions and concerns, as well as expedited delivery and even retreats as a thank-you for their continued business. Seemed like a possible waste of money to me, but I was wrong. The program has thrived, and it earned Edward a huge bonus last year.
It’s also why he says he and Amber have had to work so hard and so closely together.
“We’re doing Cabo next,” Edward says, reeling me back to their conversation. “That is, if Cross gets off my back.”
“He’s just doing his job,” Delores says. “We’re lucky to have him. Best at what he does.”
“Which is what?” I ask, ignoring the quelling look Edward shoots me.
“Forensic accounting. Not exactly what we hired him for, but that’s his background,” Delores answers, casting a narrow-eyed glance at me. Not unfriendly, but like she’s trying to remember something. “You’re the wife, right?”
“Yes.” I flash a saccharine-sweet smile and lean into Edward. “I also answer to my given name, which is Soledad.”
Edward coughs and tugs my hand. “We better be getting into the party.”
“Chicken breasts.” Delores snaps her fingers and points to me. “You wanted a bigger pan.”
I search for an answer that won’t put Edward in an awkward position or upset him. “Well, I—”
“Our test group agreed,” she says.
My half-formed apology dies. “They did?”
“They did.” She nods, approximating a smile. “I kept thinking about that one lonely chicken breast sitting off to the side waiting because our pan was too small.”
I flick a sidelong glance up at her, surprised to see the corner of her mouth twitching. I smother a giggle. “Oh, my gosh. That’s hilarious. Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.” She lifts borderline bushy brows that I’m itching to tweeze. “Well, not the part about the lonely chicken breast, but I did ask our designers about it. They polled a group of consumers who overwhelmingly agreed with you.”
“Of course they did,” Edward interjects, slipping an arm around my shoulder. “Sol’s full of great ideas. I’m always telling her she should speak up more often.”
I suppress a retort at his blatant lie and accompany him and Delores into the large room of tables loaded with food. The tantalizing scents draw a growl from my empty stomach even though, if tradition holds, the food won’t be as good as it smells. We take our place in line for the buffet, and Edward touches my elbow to get my attention.
“Hey,” he leans down to whisper. “I see Amber. I need to ask her something.”
My body involuntarily tenses at the woman’s name. He must feel my muscles turn rigid beneath his palm because he gives my arm a reassuring squeeze.
“I won’t be long, but there was something we were closing right before I left the office. There’s no room for error.”
“Of course,” I say stiffly, selecting a plate from the stack of china at the end of the table.
“Be right back.”
He walks away, heading straight for the woman smiling at him from across the room. I’ve seen her name flash up on his phone and have even caught a glimpse of her young, pretty face and silvery blond hair on-screen during video conference calls, but this is the first time we’ve been in the same room. She oozes sensuality in the dress seemingly shellacked to her lithe figure. Judging by the appreciative smile on Edward’s face, he’s not concerned with her dress being too revealing or drawing undue attention. They leave the room, heads bent together conspiratorially. Holding my empty plate, I push down the persistent sense of unease.
“Are you in line?”
A woman I recognize as the wife of one of the department heads stands behind me, sliding an impatient look from the stack of plates to my immovable self.
“Oh, sorry!” I let her pass me in line for the buffet. As awful as the food usually tastes at these Christmas parties, I bet she won’t be eager for long.
I’m scooping up green beans that look about as stiff and unseasoned as starched flannel when a movement at the door distracts me. A tall man stands a few feet away, filling the doorframe. He’s handsome, with skin the color of burnt umber stretched over features constructed of steel and stone, but that’s not what is so arresting. He’s not that tall. Maybe an inch over six feet. He’d tower over my five four, but it’s not his height that sets him apart either. It’s the contrast between the utter stillness of his athletic frame and the energy he emits in waves, like there’s a million thoughts swirling behind those dark eyes. There’s something imposing about the set of his shoulders, the proud angle of his head, that gives the impression of looking down. Not exactly arrogantly, but literally looking down, like he watches from an aerial shot and is analyzing everyone and everything in minute detail. Those assessing eyes gleam beneath a bridge of a brow, the dark line dipped into a slight frown.
He stands there, seemingly at ease, with his hands thrust into the pockets of well-tailored pants. His gaze passes slowly over the occupants of the room, never pausing too long on any one thing or person. How would it feel to hold his full attention? To be the object of that stare, a gaze so sharp it could pin you to the wall? It’s as if he’s searching for someone he hasn’t found. His survey reaches the buffet table, passing indifferently over us, but then swings back.
To me.
I wondered how it would feel to hold his full attention, and it’s nothing like I thought. There’s nothing cold about his intent stare. It heats with interest. I assumed you’d feel like an insect trapped beneath the cold glass of a microscope. Instead, my breath catches when he tilts his head and narrows his gaze on me, like I’m a particularly fascinating butterfly whose every detail he should take in before it flits away. I realize our eyes have been locked for seconds and look down, breathing easily for the first time since he entered the room. Trying to ignore the unreasonably frantic pounding of my heart, I reach for the serving fork and pierce an anemic drumstick.
“The chicken looks dry,” a man remarks beside me.
I startle, trying not to gape at the guy who moved from the door to my side so fast.
“Oh, yeah.” I drop my eyes to the unsavory meat on my plate and clear my throat. “Not too, um, appetizing.”
I shuffle forward, training my stare on the back of the woman who was so eager to get to this bland food.
“I don’t have room to talk,” he continues, his voice washing over my shoulders and neck, the deep rumble raising long-forgotten goose bumps. “I’m not a chef myself, but I’m not catering this event, so I don’t have to be.”
“True.” I release a laugh, not looking back even though I can feel his stare burning between my shoulder blades.
“Maybe it’s better than it looks,” he says, the faint sounds of him serving himself reaching me from behind.
“It’s not.” I even my voice out, irritated that I’m so disconcerted by a man doing nothing more than getting his food in the buffet line. “Pretty sure a Callahan cousin caters this party every year, so you’ll soon be enjoying the sweet taste of nepotism.”
“Explains a lot. You cook?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“You any good at it?” he asks, amusement threading the question.
I pause and glance over my shoulder, allowing a small grin. “I’m actually really good at it.”
“A confident woman.” His smile melts at the corners as our eyes hold. “I like it.”
I hastily turn back around and move forward with the line, scooping a lumpy mound of potatoes onto my plate.
“What’s your favorite dish to make?” he asks.
I smile but don’t risk facing him again. “Carne guisada.”
“Come again? I don’t know what that is. Carne sounds like steak or beef.”
“It is. It’s a beef stew we make in Puerto Rico.”
“You’re from Puerto Rico?”
“I wasn’t born there,” I admit, “but my grandmother lived there, and we’d visit her during the summers. She taught me how to cook many things, but carne guisada is my favorite. It’s the best comfort food. I make it for my family all the time.”
The word “family” lands in the air, weighing it down a moment before he speaks. “What division do you work in? I’ve only been here a year, but I would have remembered seeing you.”
At that I look over my shoulder and our glances tangle. My breath hovers between my lungs and my lips, trapped in my chest as he waits for my answer.
“I don’t work here.” I lick my lips and lower my eyes but force myself to look back up. “My husband does.”
His expression turns inscrutable, but something, a distant cousin to disappointment, rises in his eyes before he crushes it.
“Your husband.” He nods and turns his attention to the buffet, eschewing the green beans but transferring a conservative dollop of potatoes to his plate. “Lucky man.”
I manage a wan smile and face forward, knowing it’s best we end the conversation there but hating to leave. It’s not just sex Edward has been stingy with lately. It’s attention. Conversation. Interest. All the things I found unexpectedly in a few moments with a stranger, and it feels like the sun on my face after winter. So hard to turn away from that warmth when you’ve stood out in the cold.
The touch at my elbow makes me jump and almost drop my plate.
“Whoa,” Edward says, chuckling and reaching to steady my hand. “You okay?”
“Yes, of course.” I smile up at him and force my eyes not to stray to the quiet man behind him. My tiny prickle of guilt is unfounded, unreasonable.
“Great.” Edward plucks a cherry tomato from the salad I don’t even recall putting on my plate. “Sorry about that. Amber was working on something before we left the office and needed to update me.”
“Sure,” I answer absently, unable to even arouse my suspicion about Edward’s assistant after the impact of my brief interaction with the stranger. “You getting a plate?”
“Yeah, I’ll grab one.” He turns, stopping and saying a little too loudly, “Cross, didn’t notice you there.”
I spin around, my wide stare pinging between my husband and the man he’s complained about so much.
“You’re Cross?” I blurt. “The geek?”
Horror creeps into the vat of silence following my words as I realize just how badly I’ve stepped in it.
“I mean…” I tighten my fingers around the edge of my plate and gulp. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“No need to apologize,” Cross says, addressing my comment but never looking away from Edward. “I see my reputation has preceded me.”
The two men stare at one another, hostility crackling in the air, though both their faces remain impassive. They couldn’t be more different. My husband with his winter pallor, skin pale and lightly freckled. His wavy dark blond hair cut close and parted on the side. Edward has always been a charismatic charmer who draws people effortlessly. Cross, a few inches taller, broader, somehow projects a guardedness that makes him seem unapproachable, only that wasn’t how I felt a few moments ago, before he knew who I was. Whom I was married to. A muscle twitches in the unyielding line of his jaw, and his eyes crinkle at the corners with an approximation of indolent amusement that doesn’t match the flatness of his stare.
“My wife,” Edward murmurs smoothly, placing his hand at my back and gently guiding me a little closer. “Soledad.”
There is no thaw in the cold eyes that flick between my husband and me. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Barnes,” he says, the formality such a contrast to the easy warmth between us before.
“Nice to meet you too, Mr. Cross.” I glance up to meet his eyes briefly.
“Judah,” he replies, his gaze softening a fraction.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “What?”
“My name is Judah. Judah Cross.”
I offer a smile that feels like wax hardening on my face. “I’ve heard a lot about…” I let the words peter out because he probably knows that everything I’ve heard about him from Edward has been an insult.
“Let’s go sit down,” Edward says, clamping his fingers around my wrist, probably harder than he realizes because it makes me wince. I bite back a gasp but send a glare from his fingers tightened painfully around me up to his face. His hand falls away, and he rubs the sore spot on my wrist. “Sorry, babe, but we need to find our seats and eat. I’m starving.”
He guides us forward. I don’t look back, but I am supremely conscious of Cross… Judah… behind us. Before Edward has even finished loading his plate, I break away and stride swiftly toward the tables across the room, sit down without checking the place cards to see if it’s the right spot. Even conscious of Edward’s coworkers around us, I can’t wipe the scowl from my face.
“What’s your problem?” Edward mutters in a low voice for my ears only, smiling at a coworker across the table. “You’re the one who made me look like a fool in front of the very man I told you has been on my case. I should be the angry one.”
“You left me alone to skulk off with Amber,” I say hotly, stabbing the drumstick with a fork.
“I did not skulk off. I told you exactly where I was going and that I had something I had to address with my assistant. Judging by the way I saw Cross looking at you, I should be the one who’s suspicious.”
My hand freezes, suspending the fork between my plate and my mouth. “What do you mean?”
“He couldn’t take
Tonight is really important, Sol.”
I glance up from my jewelry tray to stare at my husband’s back as he strides into our walk-in closet.
“It’s a company Christmas party,” I reply dryly. “Not a board meeting.”
“May as well be,” Edward mutters, knotting the tie his mother gave him last Christmas.
God, I hate that tie. It’s plagued with red oversized polka dots that closely resemble drops of blood.
“Delores Callahan will be there,” he continues, a warning in the tone and the look he aims over his shoulder at me. “Let’s not have a repeat of last time.”
“The woman asked.” I grimace, remembering the last conversation I had with the daughter of CalPot’s CEO.
“Pretty sure she didn’t expect a Yelp review of our own product. Much less a scathing one.”
“It was not scathing.” I cross our bedroom to join him in the closet and flip through his ties, which I’ve organized by color. “It was honest. I told her the new pan only accommodates three average-size chicken breasts, and I’d love it even more if I could cook four at a time.”
“And the heat thing?” Irritation pinches the corners of his green eyes.
I shrug, plucking an embroidered Armani tie from the red section. “Well, it doesn’t heat evenly. I practically have to turn the thing every few minutes just to get the meat cooked all the way through. They’re one of the biggest cookware companies around. Aren’t pans kinda supposed to be their thing?”
“Just saying I already have Cross up my ass. I don’t need Delores Callahan after me too.”
“Cross is the new accountant?”
“Director of accounting, yeah.”
I stand in front of him and brush his fingers aside, tugging the awful tie loose and tossing it to the floor. “Not this tie, babe. Trust me.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so.” I knot the preferred tie. “Besides, this one matches the red dress you asked me to wear tonight.”
“I love that dress on you.”
“I like the gold better.”
“The gold shows too much. It’s a Christmas party, not a strip show. I’m not giving Cross room to criticize anything tonight. I don’t want to draw attention to us. I’m telling you, Sol. That guy has been after me ever since the day he showed up at CalPot.”
“Hasn’t he only been there six months? Maybe he’s still settling in.”
“It’s been a year.” Edward scowls. “A year of him watching me like a hawk and sniffing around my department all the time.”
“Let him look. You don’t have anything to hide.”
The expression that crosses Edward’s face is not so much a frown as a… twitch. Some tiny disruption in the symmetry of his handsome features, gone almost before it could be detected. Except we’ve been married sixteen years, together for eighteen. I make it my business to detect everything concerning my husband and our three girls. I practically know when this man loses an eyelash, I’m so attuned to his moods and emotions. Or at least I usually am. Lately he’s been harder to decipher and predict.
“Yeah, well,” he says. “I don’t need some geeky bean counter riding me.”
I rise up on my toes to press my lips to his ear.
“I’ve got an idea.” I grab the hand hanging limply at his side and place it on the naked curve of my butt in the skimpy thong I hoped he would have noticed by now. “Instead of thinking so much about Cross riding you, think about how I’ll ride you when we get home.”
He swallows, and that twitch happens again. Here and gone like a tumbleweed blowing across his face before I can catch it. He drops his hand from me and walks deeper into our closet, approaching his shelves of custom-made shoes.
“Damn, Sol,” he says, his tone cool. “I tell you I’m stressed at work, and you go straight to sex.”
I stiffen and force myself to reply evenly. “I didn’t mean to offend your delicate sensibilities, but when you haven’t fucked your wife in nearly two months, she tends to bring it up every once in a while.”
“It hasn’t been two months.”
“It has.”
“If you’re that horny,” he says, turning to glower at me, “you have a battery-operated solution in your bedside table.”
“Oh, believe me, it’s been earning its keep.” I practically stomp over to my side of the closet. “And if you thought you’d make me feel ashamed with that snide comment, sorry to disappoint you. I have needs, and I’m not embarrassed by how I meet them when you won’t.”
Something has fundamentally shifted in our marriage the last two years. Every couple experiences slumps, ruts. We are no exception, but it’s more than that. I’ve felt Edward slipping away from this marriage, from this family. I’ve tried everything to stop it, but my arms feel emptier, our bed feels colder, every day. I can’t hold off a landslide by myself, and lately Edward seems content to watch it all fall down.
I turn away from the row of designer dresses to find his hard stare. “I love sex, Edward. I always have. You used to like it too.”
“Can we not do this right now?” His words are graveled with irritation. “I have enough on my plate without having to think about satisfying my sex-starved wife.”
“That’s unfair. Why are you trying to make me feel bad for wanting to save our sex life? To revive this marriage? I understand if—”
“You don’t understand a damn thing.”
“I understand if,” I resume, carefully laying out my next words, “you’re having trouble in that area. Sometimes as men age—”
“I’m forty, Sol,” he fires back. “Not eighty. You ever think maybe the problem isn’t with me, but with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Women’s bodies change.”
“I’m in the best shape of my life.” I hear the note of defensiveness creeping into my voice and start again. “I do yoga and Pilates a few times a week. If anything, I’m trying not to lose this.”
I grab my generous ass. A gift from my abuela, it ain’t going anywhere anytime soon. It is time-tested and exercise-resistant, and I like it that way.
“I don’t mean the outside.” He reaches for his suit jacket. “You have pushed out three kids. Things get loose down there. What’s that thing women do to tighten up? Vaginal rejuvenation or whatever? Maybe that’s where you start reviving our sex life.”
It’s a sucker punch that knocks the breath out of me. I go still, my hand hovering over the red dress. I can’t believe he said that, and with such deliberate aim.
“Your three kids,” I reply, making sure the wobble I feel inside doesn’t make my voice waver. “I pushed out your three daughters. They literally had to stitch my vagina back together after the last one. Until you’ve known the pain of a third-degree tear, don’t complain to me about my loose pussy. Go to this party by your damn self.”
I stride out of the closet and into the bedroom, snatching my robe from the bench at the foot of our bed. Slipping my arms through the sleeves, I sit, bracing my hands on the bench to hide their shaking.
When did Edward turn cruel? He wasn’t always like this. Maybe I was so fooled by his brightness, by the beauty of him, that I overlooked this ugly underside. He was ambitious, yes, and sometimes careless, but something is rotting inside him now. It’s only lately I’ve smelled the stench.
He walks back into the bedroom in bare feet and with measured steps. The look he angles at me from under his brows is careful, calculating. I know this man. He needs me on his arm tonight at this party and is wondering what he should say to get me there.
He squats in front of me, taking my hands in his. “Look, I shouldn’t have said—”
“No, but you did.” I hold his gaze, not softening mine even though he appears contrite.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “You know I’ve been under so much pressure at the office—”
“That can’t be your excuse for everything, Edward. For being home less with me and the girls. For working all the time. For saying your assistant’s name in your sleep.”
His head snaps up. “I explained about that. Nothing’s going on between Amber and me. We’ve been working so hard on these projects that I—”
“Dream about her?” I cock my head to the side, snatching my hands away from him to fold my arms across my chest.
“No, I…” He shakes his head, his contrition and patience wearing thin. “We don’t have time to rehash this. Not right now. It only happened a couple of times. God, are you holding me responsible for my subconscious? I told you it was nothing. Can we just go?”
He reaches for my hands again, looking at me with pleading eyes.
“Sol, baby, I need you.”
I stand, glaring down at him, still not ready to release my indignation. “Then act like it.”
I leave him there and head back into the closet, flick through the clothes until I find what I’m looking for. The one-shouldered gold dress I wanted to wear shimmers among the blacks, grays, and other more muted colors. I’ve never worn it, but I remember how it cuts low over my breasts and rides high up my legs. Letting the robe fall to the floor, I wrench the dress from the hanger and yank it over my head, showing little consideration for the delicate material.
“I thought we agreed on the red,” Edward says with a frown.
“You like the red dress so much?” I shove my feet into the five-inch stilettos I coveted online for months before breaking down and buying. “You wear it.”
I leave the room in a flounce of gold and fury, taking the stairs at a breakneck pace, slowing when I realize I could literally break my neck in these heels.
“Wow, Mom.” My daughter Lupe whistles from the bottom of the stairs. “You look great.”
“Thank you, honey.” I pause to kiss her cheek. At fifteen, she already stands a few inches above me, but the heels give me a slight advantage. “I have a feeling I’ll regret these shoes, though.”
“There’s still time to change.”
“And waste all this glam?” I kick up one heel and force myself to smile even though I’m still seething from the confrontation with Edward. “No way. Looking this good might be worth losing my pinkie toe at the end of the night. Beauty is pain sometimes.”
“I’ll remember that for prom.”
My smile drops and I slap my forehead. “Ugh. Can we not talk about prom right now? I’m not ready.”
“You’ve got plenty of time to adjust. Maybe no one will ask me.”
My daughter is so pretty she gets stopped on the street by modeling scouts. We both know someone will muster the courage to ask her, but I’m not ready for her to grow up. Next will be college, and I’ll probably have to get several cats and a dog to survive that.
“Make sure your sisters do their homework,” I say, diverting the conversation. I was already furious. Why add melancholy to the emotional mix before we even arrive at this party?
The thud of Edward’s footsteps descending the stairs revives my anger, slipping a rod down my back. When his hand curls around my hip, I barely resist the urge to slap it away.
“We’ll be home late, baby girl,” he tells Lupe. “Call if you need anything.”
“Okay, Daddy.” She flicks a look between us, a slight frown knitting her brows.
My three girls are my greatest joy. Lupe looks the least like me with the red hair she inherited from my father, Edward’s green eyes, and her own pale-gold skin, but her temperament is the most like mine. Overachieving. Naturally nurturing and deeply intuitive. If there’s a ripple in the water, she feels it. A tsunami is happening between her parents, and I think she senses the tension in me. With a conscious effort to relax my muscles, I pull away from Edward and head for the garage.
“Love you, Lupe,” I call over my shoulder, not waiting to see if Edward follows. “Watch your sisters, and don’t wait up.”
The thirty-minute drive to Brett Callahan’s house is quiet and frosted with tension. Neither of us breaks the brittle silence. The first time we attended one of these holiday parties at the CEO’s sprawling mansion a few years ago, Edward had just started at CalPot. We barely concealed our awe, elbowing each other and trying not to gape at the ostentatious surroundings.
“I’ll get us one of these someday, Sol,” he vowed, eyeing the high ceilings and priceless art decorating the walls.
I laughed it off because, though we live a comfortable life, in many ways a privileged life in Skyland, one of Atlanta’s most desirable in-town communities, we’ll probably never have a place like that. Brett Callahan’s palatial home is practically an estate north of Atlanta. I always find myself squirming when we come this far north of the city, places that less than half a century ago didn’t welcome people who looked like me.
I pull down the visor to check my makeup. My skin glows cinnamon gold in the mirror light, which emphasizes subtle hollows under my cheekbones, my glossed lips, my favorite set of false lashes, and the hair, pressed tonight from its usual springy curls into a silky fall around my shoulders.
Edward shows his license to the security officer at the gate and passes through. He pushes out a long breath when we pull into the large circular driveway.
“I can’t believe you wore that dress.” He frowns over at me in the passenger seat, the length of my leg exposed by the high slit.
“There’s nothing wrong with it.” I smooth the silky material over my knees. “I don’t understand why you’re so uptight about tonight and this Cross guy.”
“I know it doesn’t make sense.” Edward reaches across to grab my hand and turns to me as the valet hired for the night approaches. “But trust me when I say Cross is not our friend. Just stay off his radar. Can you do that for me, Sol?”
He strokes the back of my hand, and my heart softens a little at the first sign of tenderness he’s shown me in days. Maybe I am underestimating the pressure he’s under. This Cross guy must be a real ogre to get my usually unflappable husband this flustered.
“I said I can. I will.” I squeeze his hand, catching his stare and smiling. “And I promise not to tell Delores Callahan her nonstick coating starts flaking after only a few uses.”
He huffs a short laugh, shakes his head, and opens the door to hand over the keys.
Once inside, I note the few changes they’ve made to the decor since I was here for last year’s party. A new crystal light fixture. Slightly more garish wallpaper in the foyer. New window treatments? I can’t remember if they were this tacky before. To have all this money and so little taste. Tragic, really.
“Edward, good to see you.” Delores Callahan greets us before we can join the party in the large room where everyone is mingling. Her dark hair is tightly curled tonight, and she seems not quite at home in a floral dress, her wonderful wide shoulders and forceful personality pushing against the seams and straining the collar.
“Delores,” Edward says, his smile stiff and his hand slightly tightening on my elbow. “Haven’t seen you since the sales meeting weeks ago. We’ve missed you around the office.”
“Been up in Canada,” Delores responds, her eyes gleaming with sharp intelligence as she watches my husband. “They’re really buzzing up there about your White Glove program. Several of our customers say they hear great things and want in. Can’t believe we didn’t think of something like this before.”
“You know me.” Edward practically preens. “Always looking for ways to innovate.”
I barely catch my eye roll and keep my smile fixed in place.
“Who’d have thought someone would pay that much just to feel like they’re getting the VIP treatment?” Delores shakes her head, the grudging admiration clear on her face. “And the retreats? Stroke of genius.”
I was skeptical when Edward first introduced the White Glove program for CalPot customers who purchased the most product and spent above a certain threshold. They would get special agents assigned to their accounts who were always available for questions and concerns, as well as expedited delivery and even retreats as a thank-you for their continued business. Seemed like a possible waste of money to me, but I was wrong. The program has thrived, and it earned Edward a huge bonus last year.
It’s also why he says he and Amber have had to work so hard and so closely together.
“We’re doing Cabo next,” Edward says, reeling me back to their conversation. “That is, if Cross gets off my back.”
“He’s just doing his job,” Delores says. “We’re lucky to have him. Best at what he does.”
“Which is what?” I ask, ignoring the quelling look Edward shoots me.
“Forensic accounting. Not exactly what we hired him for, but that’s his background,” Delores answers, casting a narrow-eyed glance at me. Not unfriendly, but like she’s trying to remember something. “You’re the wife, right?”
“Yes.” I flash a saccharine-sweet smile and lean into Edward. “I also answer to my given name, which is Soledad.”
Edward coughs and tugs my hand. “We better be getting into the party.”
“Chicken breasts.” Delores snaps her fingers and points to me. “You wanted a bigger pan.”
I search for an answer that won’t put Edward in an awkward position or upset him. “Well, I—”
“Our test group agreed,” she says.
My half-formed apology dies. “They did?”
“They did.” She nods, approximating a smile. “I kept thinking about that one lonely chicken breast sitting off to the side waiting because our pan was too small.”
I flick a sidelong glance up at her, surprised to see the corner of her mouth twitching. I smother a giggle. “Oh, my gosh. That’s hilarious. Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.” She lifts borderline bushy brows that I’m itching to tweeze. “Well, not the part about the lonely chicken breast, but I did ask our designers about it. They polled a group of consumers who overwhelmingly agreed with you.”
“Of course they did,” Edward interjects, slipping an arm around my shoulder. “Sol’s full of great ideas. I’m always telling her she should speak up more often.”
I suppress a retort at his blatant lie and accompany him and Delores into the large room of tables loaded with food. The tantalizing scents draw a growl from my empty stomach even though, if tradition holds, the food won’t be as good as it smells. We take our place in line for the buffet, and Edward touches my elbow to get my attention.
“Hey,” he leans down to whisper. “I see Amber. I need to ask her something.”
My body involuntarily tenses at the woman’s name. He must feel my muscles turn rigid beneath his palm because he gives my arm a reassuring squeeze.
“I won’t be long, but there was something we were closing right before I left the office. There’s no room for error.”
“Of course,” I say stiffly, selecting a plate from the stack of china at the end of the table.
“Be right back.”
He walks away, heading straight for the woman smiling at him from across the room. I’ve seen her name flash up on his phone and have even caught a glimpse of her young, pretty face and silvery blond hair on-screen during video conference calls, but this is the first time we’ve been in the same room. She oozes sensuality in the dress seemingly shellacked to her lithe figure. Judging by the appreciative smile on Edward’s face, he’s not concerned with her dress being too revealing or drawing undue attention. They leave the room, heads bent together conspiratorially. Holding my empty plate, I push down the persistent sense of unease.
“Are you in line?”
A woman I recognize as the wife of one of the department heads stands behind me, sliding an impatient look from the stack of plates to my immovable self.
“Oh, sorry!” I let her pass me in line for the buffet. As awful as the food usually tastes at these Christmas parties, I bet she won’t be eager for long.
I’m scooping up green beans that look about as stiff and unseasoned as starched flannel when a movement at the door distracts me. A tall man stands a few feet away, filling the doorframe. He’s handsome, with skin the color of burnt umber stretched over features constructed of steel and stone, but that’s not what is so arresting. He’s not that tall. Maybe an inch over six feet. He’d tower over my five four, but it’s not his height that sets him apart either. It’s the contrast between the utter stillness of his athletic frame and the energy he emits in waves, like there’s a million thoughts swirling behind those dark eyes. There’s something imposing about the set of his shoulders, the proud angle of his head, that gives the impression of looking down. Not exactly arrogantly, but literally looking down, like he watches from an aerial shot and is analyzing everyone and everything in minute detail. Those assessing eyes gleam beneath a bridge of a brow, the dark line dipped into a slight frown.
He stands there, seemingly at ease, with his hands thrust into the pockets of well-tailored pants. His gaze passes slowly over the occupants of the room, never pausing too long on any one thing or person. How would it feel to hold his full attention? To be the object of that stare, a gaze so sharp it could pin you to the wall? It’s as if he’s searching for someone he hasn’t found. His survey reaches the buffet table, passing indifferently over us, but then swings back.
To me.
I wondered how it would feel to hold his full attention, and it’s nothing like I thought. There’s nothing cold about his intent stare. It heats with interest. I assumed you’d feel like an insect trapped beneath the cold glass of a microscope. Instead, my breath catches when he tilts his head and narrows his gaze on me, like I’m a particularly fascinating butterfly whose every detail he should take in before it flits away. I realize our eyes have been locked for seconds and look down, breathing easily for the first time since he entered the room. Trying to ignore the unreasonably frantic pounding of my heart, I reach for the serving fork and pierce an anemic drumstick.
“The chicken looks dry,” a man remarks beside me.
I startle, trying not to gape at the guy who moved from the door to my side so fast.
“Oh, yeah.” I drop my eyes to the unsavory meat on my plate and clear my throat. “Not too, um, appetizing.”
I shuffle forward, training my stare on the back of the woman who was so eager to get to this bland food.
“I don’t have room to talk,” he continues, his voice washing over my shoulders and neck, the deep rumble raising long-forgotten goose bumps. “I’m not a chef myself, but I’m not catering this event, so I don’t have to be.”
“True.” I release a laugh, not looking back even though I can feel his stare burning between my shoulder blades.
“Maybe it’s better than it looks,” he says, the faint sounds of him serving himself reaching me from behind.
“It’s not.” I even my voice out, irritated that I’m so disconcerted by a man doing nothing more than getting his food in the buffet line. “Pretty sure a Callahan cousin caters this party every year, so you’ll soon be enjoying the sweet taste of nepotism.”
“Explains a lot. You cook?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“You any good at it?” he asks, amusement threading the question.
I pause and glance over my shoulder, allowing a small grin. “I’m actually really good at it.”
“A confident woman.” His smile melts at the corners as our eyes hold. “I like it.”
I hastily turn back around and move forward with the line, scooping a lumpy mound of potatoes onto my plate.
“What’s your favorite dish to make?” he asks.
I smile but don’t risk facing him again. “Carne guisada.”
“Come again? I don’t know what that is. Carne sounds like steak or beef.”
“It is. It’s a beef stew we make in Puerto Rico.”
“You’re from Puerto Rico?”
“I wasn’t born there,” I admit, “but my grandmother lived there, and we’d visit her during the summers. She taught me how to cook many things, but carne guisada is my favorite. It’s the best comfort food. I make it for my family all the time.”
The word “family” lands in the air, weighing it down a moment before he speaks. “What division do you work in? I’ve only been here a year, but I would have remembered seeing you.”
At that I look over my shoulder and our glances tangle. My breath hovers between my lungs and my lips, trapped in my chest as he waits for my answer.
“I don’t work here.” I lick my lips and lower my eyes but force myself to look back up. “My husband does.”
His expression turns inscrutable, but something, a distant cousin to disappointment, rises in his eyes before he crushes it.
“Your husband.” He nods and turns his attention to the buffet, eschewing the green beans but transferring a conservative dollop of potatoes to his plate. “Lucky man.”
I manage a wan smile and face forward, knowing it’s best we end the conversation there but hating to leave. It’s not just sex Edward has been stingy with lately. It’s attention. Conversation. Interest. All the things I found unexpectedly in a few moments with a stranger, and it feels like the sun on my face after winter. So hard to turn away from that warmth when you’ve stood out in the cold.
The touch at my elbow makes me jump and almost drop my plate.
“Whoa,” Edward says, chuckling and reaching to steady my hand. “You okay?”
“Yes, of course.” I smile up at him and force my eyes not to stray to the quiet man behind him. My tiny prickle of guilt is unfounded, unreasonable.
“Great.” Edward plucks a cherry tomato from the salad I don’t even recall putting on my plate. “Sorry about that. Amber was working on something before we left the office and needed to update me.”
“Sure,” I answer absently, unable to even arouse my suspicion about Edward’s assistant after the impact of my brief interaction with the stranger. “You getting a plate?”
“Yeah, I’ll grab one.” He turns, stopping and saying a little too loudly, “Cross, didn’t notice you there.”
I spin around, my wide stare pinging between my husband and the man he’s complained about so much.
“You’re Cross?” I blurt. “The geek?”
Horror creeps into the vat of silence following my words as I realize just how badly I’ve stepped in it.
“I mean…” I tighten my fingers around the edge of my plate and gulp. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“No need to apologize,” Cross says, addressing my comment but never looking away from Edward. “I see my reputation has preceded me.”
The two men stare at one another, hostility crackling in the air, though both their faces remain impassive. They couldn’t be more different. My husband with his winter pallor, skin pale and lightly freckled. His wavy dark blond hair cut close and parted on the side. Edward has always been a charismatic charmer who draws people effortlessly. Cross, a few inches taller, broader, somehow projects a guardedness that makes him seem unapproachable, only that wasn’t how I felt a few moments ago, before he knew who I was. Whom I was married to. A muscle twitches in the unyielding line of his jaw, and his eyes crinkle at the corners with an approximation of indolent amusement that doesn’t match the flatness of his stare.
“My wife,” Edward murmurs smoothly, placing his hand at my back and gently guiding me a little closer. “Soledad.”
There is no thaw in the cold eyes that flick between my husband and me. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Barnes,” he says, the formality such a contrast to the easy warmth between us before.
“Nice to meet you too, Mr. Cross.” I glance up to meet his eyes briefly.
“Judah,” he replies, his gaze softening a fraction.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “What?”
“My name is Judah. Judah Cross.”
I offer a smile that feels like wax hardening on my face. “I’ve heard a lot about…” I let the words peter out because he probably knows that everything I’ve heard about him from Edward has been an insult.
“Let’s go sit down,” Edward says, clamping his fingers around my wrist, probably harder than he realizes because it makes me wince. I bite back a gasp but send a glare from his fingers tightened painfully around me up to his face. His hand falls away, and he rubs the sore spot on my wrist. “Sorry, babe, but we need to find our seats and eat. I’m starving.”
He guides us forward. I don’t look back, but I am supremely conscious of Cross… Judah… behind us. Before Edward has even finished loading his plate, I break away and stride swiftly toward the tables across the room, sit down without checking the place cards to see if it’s the right spot. Even conscious of Edward’s coworkers around us, I can’t wipe the scowl from my face.
“What’s your problem?” Edward mutters in a low voice for my ears only, smiling at a coworker across the table. “You’re the one who made me look like a fool in front of the very man I told you has been on my case. I should be the angry one.”
“You left me alone to skulk off with Amber,” I say hotly, stabbing the drumstick with a fork.
“I did not skulk off. I told you exactly where I was going and that I had something I had to address with my assistant. Judging by the way I saw Cross looking at you, I should be the one who’s suspicious.”
My hand freezes, suspending the fork between my plate and my mouth. “What do you mean?”
“He couldn’t take
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
