Page 104 of Secret Husband
I spent the next week crisscrossing the country, checking in with clients. At least four of them had been approached by Thad. Three had invested in his crypto scheme.
And now the weasel wasn’t answering my calls or texts.
It probably didn’t help that I led with “Where the fuck are you, you pimple-balled asshole?” A week ago, I had wanted to explain why we weren’t compatible and let him down more easily than that Malbec facial. Now I just wanted to wring his stupid neck.
Everyone I spoke with thought this ask was approved by me. The client who handed over fifty thousand dollars wasn’t too impressed when I told him that Thad didn’t have my backing. When he called to say my ex-boyfriend was incommunicado, I sensed he was reconsidering his representation.
But I couldn’t not tell my clients. Now my entire business was in danger of collapsing. This was what happened when you trusted a finance bro.
In the Uber home from the airport after my flight from Denver, I was tempted to confront him face to face at his apartment (after stopping off at my office first to pick up Gunnar’s stick). But it was one of those perfect summer evenings with candy floss strands of pinks and orange blazing across the sky, and the thought of seeing Thad depressed me too much. So I headed home, wishing it felt more like that and less like a construction site.
I had thought the summer would give me the break I needed. But my life was imploding: Thad, my career, and this clusterfuck of a situation with Alexei.
But at least I’d scored a man-made orgasm out of it. It would need to tide me over for, well, life. Because I sure as hell would not be that vulnerable ever again.
I opened the door to Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” which meant Gunnar was here. Nineties grunge was his jam. I placed my roller board in the hallway and walked into the living room.
Not Gunnar.
Instead, my husband stood on a ladder with a paint roller and tray, and boy, did he look good. Those broad shoulders, tapering to trim hips and a slim waist. Don’t even get me started on the perfect ass, lovingly cupped in denim. After the trip I’d had, it was such a simple pleasure to watch him like this.
Nothing was resolved. My problems were still mountains. But I could appreciate this beauty before me.
I let out a satisfied sigh—though it emerged more like a whimper—and he turned, wobbled, and righted himself.
“You’re home.”
Home. It felt more like it now, and that scared me more than the rubble under which I was buried.
“Did Gunnar pull a Tom Sawyer on you?”
“A what?”
I smiled. “Never mind. I can’t believe you’re here.”
He descended the ladder and grabbed a rag to wipe his hands. “He said you were due in late. I hoped to have it done before you got here.”
“I took an earlier flight.” I sat on the sofa, currently draped in a drop cloth. It would probably ruin my suit, but I was too tired to care.
He sat at the other end. “How was your trip?”
“Not great.” I waved it off, not wanting to go into details. “Right now, I just want to shower and order a pizza.”
“How about some homemade mac n’ cheese?”
I grasped his arm. “Get out.”
“I made it this afternoon for my father, but I had too much and I assumed you would be hungry. It is in the fridge. But we can order a pizza, if you like.”
“No, mac n’ cheese sounds amazing. I’ll take a shower and?—”
“About that.” He grimaced. “A pipe burst while you were gone. It flooded the upstairs bathroom and damaged the ceiling in the kitchen.”
I shot up and ran to the kitchen. A rust-tinged wet patch was centered ominously above my head.
“So the water is?—”
“Off. The plumber needs a part and he’ll be here tomorrow. Gunnar came across it this morning.”
