Midnight Sommelier - Anne Malcom Page 0,66

the day, washed away your sleep, put anything on. I like you natural.”

This should have been something incredibly romantic, right? My husband thinking I was more beautiful without makeup. But it wasn’t. Not to me at least. I took offense to it in a way that didn’t make sense. Like he was trying to say there was a certain way he liked me to look, and I was supposed to forgo the things that had made me feel good in the past.

He hadn’t meant it like that, of course.

Still, it irked me.

Zeke hadn’t made many comments on my appearance. He’d made it clear he found it more than pleasing, but most of our interactions had been when the night cloaked us, covering up the parts we were unable to hide in the daylight.

I’d never bothered with my appearance beyond making sure I was shaved, moisturized, and everything smelled good.

The ring of the doorbell sounded as I was putting in my gold hoop earrings.

A sparkle in the mirror caught my eye, one I’d become used to over the years. I looked downward to my left hand, at the large rock on my finger. David had proposed with a Ring Pop when I found out I was pregnant, then he’d upgraded. And upgraded. It had become sort of a tradition to get me something bigger, flashier as the years went on.

I’d been delighted at the increase in carats, though you weren’t supposed to think, let alone say things like that. It wasn’t supposed to matter, some overpriced, polished rock that didn’t mean anything if the marriage was as cold as the gem itself. But it did mean something to me, being able to look down at it throughout the day. It being something large and striking. Something permanent.

At least that’s what I had thought.

There hadn’t been a moment this past year where I consider taking it off. I wouldn’t consider chopping off my finger, would I? Even when I’d started things up with Zeke, the ring stayed on my finger.

But now, as I was getting dressed for another man, putting on makeup for someone else, should I still have this ring on my finger?

The doorbell rang again.

I took a breath and went downstairs, the ring still on my finger. I opened the door. I hadn’t been prepared for who was standing there.

“Martin,” I said, not making an effort to hide my disappointment.

I hadn’t expected Zeke to be ringing the doorbell. It wasn’t really his style. He was more likely to melt out of the shadows in my closet like some kind of demon.

I figured it might’ve been my mother-in-law after our confrontation. I never thought I’d see the day where I would prefer her on my doorstep than this snake in a bespoke suit.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, making sure to make my disdain known. My body tensed up in a way I couldn’t explain, like I was expecting him to strike. My grip on the door bordered on painful, and I glanced around the neighborhood for signs of life.

All the times I’d wished the residents of this street had been inside doing their laundry, fucking their husbands—or pool boys—or getting massages, they’d been pretending to water their garden. Getting mail. Whatever got them a front row seat to an argument with David. Me getting locked out in my swimsuit. David getting locked out when we were having sex by the pool. The time I’d got my period on the way home from a road trip wearing white pants.

But now, a sleazeball staining my welcome mat with his mere presence, there was nary a neighbor to bear witness.

“I came to apologize,” he said, smiling. Though I wouldn’t call it a real smile. More like a show of gleaming white, straight veneers.

He held up a bottle of Grey Goose like it was some kind of white flag.

I gripped the door harder, making sure to leave only the smallest crack possible, so as not to give him any inclination that he was welcome inside. All my red flags were waving at me.

Something told me that this man with the three-hundred-dollar haircut and fake tan was more dangerous than the self-confessed murderer next door.

“I don’t drink vodka,” I said, tone sharp.

His smile faltered ever so slightly before he moved it back into place. “Ah, the martinis I’ve made for you at our Christmas parties tell me different.”

I swallowed, pursed my lips. Did not reply. I should’ve slammed the door in his face. He