I was making headway when I heard a yell from the living room that sounded like it had come from Eva. I paused, listening. It was quiet a moment, and then I heard it again, followed by Cary’s raised voice. I went to the door and opened it.
“You could talk to me, Cary!” my wife said angrily. “You could tell me what’s going on.”
“You know what the f**k is going on,” he retorted, the edge in his tone drawing me out of my office.
“I didn’t know you were cutting again!”
I moved down the hall. Eva and Cary squared off in the living room, the two friends glaring at each other across the span of several feet.
“It’s none of your business,” he said, his shoulders high and chin canted defensively. He glanced at me. “Not yours, either.”
“I don’t disagree,” I replied, although that wasn’t quite true. How Cary self-destructed wasn’t my concern; how it affected Eva was.
“Bullshit. That’s total f**king bullshit.” Eva’s gaze shot to me as she turned to bring me into their conversation. Then she looked back at Cary. “I thought you were talking to Dr. Travis.”
“When do I have time for that?” he scoffed, raking his hair back off his forehead. “Between my work and Tat’s, plus trying to keep Trey, I don’t have time to sleep!”
Eva shook her head. “That’s a cop-out.”
“Don’t lecture me, baby girl,” he warned. “I don’t need your shit right now.”
“Oh my God.” She tipped her head back and looked at the ceiling. “Why the f**k do the men in my life insist on shutting me out when they need me most?”
“Can’t speak for Cross, but you’re not around for me anymore. I’m getting by the best I can.”
Her head snapped down. “That’s not fair! You have to tell me when you need me. I’m not a damn mind reader!”
Turning on my heel, I left them to it. I had problems of my own to work out. When Eva was ready, she’d come to me and I would listen, being careful not to offer too much of my opinion.
I knew she didn’t want to hear that I thought she would be better off without Cary.
—
THE early-morning light slanted across the bed and caught the ends of Eva’s hair as she slept. The soft blond strands glowed like burnished gold, as if they were lit from within. Her hand curled gently on the pillow beside her beautiful face, the other tucked safely between her br**sts. The white sheet was draped over her from hip to thigh, her tanned legs exposed by the tangle we’d made before falling asleep.
I wasn’t a man given to whimsy, but at that moment my wife looked like the angel I believed she was. I focused the camera on the sight she made, wanting to preserve that image of her for all time.
The shutter snapped and she stirred, her lips parting. I took another shot, grateful I’d bought a camera that just might do justice to her.
Her eyelids fluttered open. “What are you doing, ace?” she asked, in a voice as smoky as her irises.
I set the camera on the dresser and joined her in the bed. “Admiring you.”
Her lips curved. “How are you feeling today?”
“Better.”
“Better is good.” Rolling, she reached for her breath mints. She turned back to me smelling of cinnamon. Her gaze slid over my face. “You’re ready to tackle the world today, aren’t you?”
“I’d much rather stay home with you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re just saying that. You’re itching to get back to global domination.”
Bending down, I kissed the tip of her nose. “You know me so well.”
It still amazed me how well she could read me. I was feeling restless, a bit shaky. Distracting myself with work—seeing concrete progress made on any of the projects I was personally overseeing—would ease that. Still, I pointed out, “I could work the morning at home, and then spend the afternoon with you.”
She shook her head. “If you want to talk, I’ll stay home. Otherwise, I’ve got a job to get back to.”