Page 41 of Devotion
He was shirtless.
My brain noted this and every single thought vanished from my head. His hair was damp. His sweatpants sat low on his hips. He was carrying a pillow under one arm, which was an odd thing to bring out of a bathroom. But I didn’t have the bandwidth to process that detail because his shoulders were right there, his stomach just as impossible to ignore and the trail of dark hair below his navel far too distracting—and my eyes were not staying in their lane.
“What are you doing in my room?”
His voice was cold, snapping me back to reality.
“I didn’t see you,” I said. “I knocked and there was no answer. I just wanted to tell you breakfast is ready.”
“You’re not my real wife.” He said it flatly, like he was correcting a misunderstanding. “You don’t need to put in all that effort.”
The words struck in my chest and sat there like a stone. Not myreal wife. All of it reduced to something that wasn’t required.
I nodded. “Understood.”
I turned and walked down the stairs, into the kitchen where the scrambled eggs were almost cold and the toast had gone from golden to room temperature. I stood there for a second. Then I picked up both plates, the juice, the toast, and carried everything outside.
Carlos, the driver, was by the garage polishing the side mirror of one of Christopher's cars. He was in his fifties and round-faced, with a smile that arrived before his words and alaugh you could hear from three rooms away. I’d met him a few times when he’d driven Christopher to Eleanor’s house.
“Mrs. Vale!” He straightened up when he saw me. “Good morning!”
“Miley,” I corrected. “Please. Mrs. Vale makes me feel like I should be wearing pearls and judging people.”
He laughed, the first real laugh I’d heard in this house. “What’s all this?”
“Breakfast. Turkey bacon, scrambled eggs, toast.” I held out the plate. “I made extra. Do you want it?”
His face lit up. “Do I want it? Ma’am, I have been eating a granola bar in this garage every morning for six years. This is the greatest day of my professional career.”
I gave him one plate. I found Diego, the gardener, trimming hedges near the side entrance, and gave him the other. Diego didn’t speak much English but his expression when he tasted the eggs told me everything I needed to know.
I went back to the kitchen, washed the dishes, and told myself the sting wasn’t there.
Twenty minutes later, Christopher came downstairs, suit on and hair done, looking nothing like the man I’d caught half-dressed an hour earlier. He walked into the kitchen, looked at the empty table, then at me.
“Where’s breakfast?”
I turned from the sink. “You said you didn’t want it.”
“Since you made it, it shouldn’t go to waste at least.”
“Well, it’s gone now.”
“Gone where?”
“Carlos and Diego. They appreciated the effort. It’s not wasted.”
He looked at me. I stared at him right back. The kitchen was very quiet.
“I’m running late for work,” I said. “Eleanor’s expecting me.”
“Right.” He said it like he’d forgotten, which he probably had, that his fake wife was also his grandmother’s chef and had a job to get to.
I picked up my bag and walked toward the door. I could feel his gaze on my back the entire way. I didn’t turn around.
The days settled into a pattern.
I woke early. Did my morning routine. Then I drove to Eleanor’s, cooked for her, spent the afternoon checking on Sazón’s reconstruction with the contractor, and came home to a house where my husband existed behind closed doors.
