heavily. “You need to do it. Say goodbye for good. Tell him you’re moving and won’t be sending him any Christmas cards.”
“Maybe we could be friends on Facebook,” I joke.
He glares at me. “That’s not even funny,” he says. “No.”
I smile. “Weston’s not on Facebook. He’s much too anti-social for that.”
“Good,” he says before he disappears under the sink again. “No contact what-so-ever,” he adds, loud and clear.
I sneak one last peek at his navel, and the trail of soft dark hair underneath disappearing into the band of his briefs.
Okay, back to work.
I don’t see the words, or the grayish paper as my thumb flicks through the pages. All I can see is this woman’s story; her quaint little house, her beach town in California. I am riveted. I am reading one of my favorite authors.
There always seems to be a recurring theme in her books — women who have been somehow slighted by the man they thought loved them. They begin a new chapter, rediscover themselves, and realize they are happier on their own, and that their husband’s betrayal was, in the end, a blessing in disguise. I love these stories about new beginnings, but still, I have no desire to be in these women’s shoes. I don’t ever want to say goodbye to Gabe. I want him to be my beginning, my middle and my end. I want him to be my whole story. I don’t want to start a new chapter.
This particular story is no different. The woman realizes her husband has another family across the country. It’s clear at this point this woman is loved by this man, but what’s not yet clear is why he chose to do this to her? Oddly, part of me can relate to him. Maybe he was in love with two women. He married the first one and was bound by marriage, children and years together. And then he met someone else and fell in love again, but wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye to anyone.
I don’t think I’ve even blinked in the last minute, I’m so captivated by the story. But when Gabe knocks at my bedroom door (our bedroom door), I shoot a glance up at him, all of him. He’s wearing a worn red t-shirt. And those green work pants again — the ones which hang low off his hips. And he’s sweaty and dirty… and I kind of like that. Suddenly my book is not so interesting anymore.
He smiles as he sweeps a hand across his abs. “Do you mind if I use the shower in here?” he asks, running a hand through his hair. He looks dog-tired, but somehow manages to still look damn sexy. “You know how useless the other one is.”
I clear my throat. “Yeah, sure,” I try to say as normally as possible, but my voice cracks. I hope he hasn’t noticed. He shoots me a smile as he dashes to the en suite. He swings the door shut half-heartedly and it bounces back open a little. I can see him through the three-inch sliver.
He pulls off his shirt and I bite my lip, watching him.
“We should get something nice for the new shower,” he says.
My eyes flicker from my book, back to him, back and forth. He shakes the dust out of his hair. He pulls off his pants and his briefs in one fell swoop.
I’d almost forgotten all about the beautiful curves of his back and ass.
Oh hell.
I think I’ve read the same sentence five times.
I put my book down on the night table. Who am I kidding? I’m done reading for the night.
I catch a quick glimpse of my name inked over his hip bone and he’s off into the shower. I wonder if he did that on purpose; left the door open like that, giving me a glimpse. I wouldn’t put it past him.
The sneaky bastard.
I hear the water run and I lay down across the bed, stretching my legs. I close my eyes and imagine him naked in the shower. He sweeps his hand over his head as the water cascades over him. I smile and arch my back at the vision.
How did we get here?
He’s my husband, for crying out loud.
I am lusting after my own husband. How very odd and kinda hot.
This is the night, I decide. I need to make the first move. This isn’t the way the story typically goes with us two, he’s usually always all over me. It seems I never