Page 80 of My Husband Problem

“No, but he likes Miles better.”

Nora sighs. She can’t deny that.

I look at Sutton. “Is Beckett over there too?” I don’t know why this occurs to me except that Sutton and Beckett are joined at the hip and Beckett can’t keep a secret to save his life. He also has stars in his eyes when it comes to my husband. If he’s over there “hanging out,” it’s very possible he bragged about it to his sister.

Sutton doesn’t even try to lie. She nods. “Yeah, they’re helping with some work on the house,” she spills.

“The house?” I repeat. “Myhouse?”

Sutton nods, but now she looks a little worried.

“What kind of work?” I demand.

Sutton swipes a finger across the screen of her phone, then turns it so I can see it.

It’s a selfie from Beckett. He’s grinning, holding up a hammer, standing on the roof of my house in front of the attic window that has been completely torn out.

She lifts her hand and swipes again. The video makes my mouth drop open.

It’s Declan. He’s on a ladder, with a drill in hand, wearing yet another T-shirt that hugs his body and shows off the bunching of his shoulders and back muscles as he does whatever he’s doing to the frame of the window on the side of my house. The one in the living room. The one I can wiggle open when I forget my keys and can’t get into the house.

It’s only happened once, and it was before I put a key under the otter statue on my porch. Hey, I came from a high-rise building in Portland where we had keypads. I wasn’t used to keeping track of an actual key that had to be on a keychain in my purse or pocket to get in and out of my apartment.

“They’rereplacingwindows?” I ask.

I try to ignore the twinge of disappointment I feel when Sutton turns her phone away from me, and I lose sight of Declan O’Grady doing manual labor with a power tool.

That is an image I do not need to have in my head.

Or maybe you do. That could be handy when you’re working on your therapy.

Yeah, yeah, so I’ve been using images of my husband while I work on my pelvic floor physical therapy.

I am working with dilators and a massage wand to stretch and relax my tight muscles, and it’s simply easier when I’m turned on. Because sex, especially penetration, is painful, I tend to tense up further even when imagining sex.

So, I’m also supposed to mentally rehearse sex. It’s just like the visualization basketball players use to work on their shots or pianists use to work on their pieces when they’re away from thepiano. I’m supposed to visualize actual sex while I work with my fingers and vibrators to give myself orgasms.

Thea, my physical therapist, is the only one who knows that Declan is the one I envision, that I wear one of his button-down shirts at night, that I bought the same bodywash he uses, and that I shower with it at night before bed to surround myself with his scent.

Including Declan in my therapy always works to help me relax and anticipate pleasure rather than pain. In my fantasies, he’s take-charge, dominant, dirty, but caring and patient and…perfect. Like he is in everything he does.

A lot like he was when he thought I was choking on shrimp.

Exactly the way he was last night when he was kissing me, and then when he realized how hazardous my porch is, and when I had a splinter.

Turns out my fantasy Declan is pretty damned close to real-life Declan.

But I have always envisioned him as the put-together, somewhat intimidating businessman in his suits and ties at his desk. Now he’s adding to my fantasy fodder. T-shirt, bulging muscles, flat stomach, perfect ass…and power tools.

“I don’t know why they’re doing it,” Sutton says, holding her hands up. “I just know Beckett is really excited to be there with everyone.”

“Wait,everyone?”

“Well, Wes was hired for the job,” Nora says. “But because it was so last minute and a rush job, Wes recruited the whole hockey team. At least as many of them as could show up.”

I stare at them, processing this.

“So my hockey team is at my house replacing windows?”