Page 63 of Homewrecker

He left.

You’re becoming your father’s women.

No, I’m not.

Those women waited for a man who kept going home, but Caleb had left his. At least, that’s how I arranged it in my head.

I closed the folder and slid it toward him. “Okay.”

His brows lifted. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

I picked up my fabric book. “You can go now.”

For the first time, he smiled. “Are you still mad?”

“Very.”

“Thirty-seven days wasn’t enough?”

My head snapped up. “You counted?”

His smile widened. “Apparently you did too.”

“Get out.”

He picked up the folder then the duffel bag. “Have dinner with me.”

“No.”

“Tomorrow.”

“No.”

“Friday.”

“You’re still legally married.”

His smile disappeared. “I know.”

“Then stop asking.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

He left and the smell of his cologne lingered in my conference room and my entire nervous system acted like it had been waiting thirty-seven days for permission to wake back up.

I unblocked his number that night, but I didn’t text him. At 1:12 the next afternoon he sent a message.

Caleb: I’m assuming the unblock means I’m allowed to speak.

Blair: Don’t make me regret it.

I convinced myself that the difference was that now Caleb wasn’t texting from the house he shared with Ravenna. He sent pictures from an apartment with empty walls, boxes, and a mattress still wrapped in plastic. He had the saddest refrigerator I’d ever seen and he sent me a picture of his living room.

Caleb: Help.

I stared at the empty space.