Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
I channel my energy into the manuscript, typing away on my keyboard at a speed I’m not accustomed to.
Every detail replayed in my mind of us on the couch, vivid and undeniable. Before he left, Cam fucked me again, on my bed. It wasn’t rushed or frantic like the first time. It was slower, deliberate, as if he knew we wouldn’t see each other for a while. His hands moved over my skin like he was memorizing it, like he was committing the feel of me to memory. The room had been bathed in darkness, the only sounds our shared breaths, the creak of the bed, and the occasional murmur of his voice in my ear.
Even now, I can feel the imprint of his fingers on my waist, the discrepancy in the temperature of his body against mine.
I don’t know where he told his wife he was last night—possibly working a night shift—but he said he’d be back again this afternoon. That’s how these things go, I guess. Sneaking moments, lying to someone we vowed our lives to, all in the name of something we pretend we can’t resist. I should feel guilt clawing at me, but instead, there’s this strange mixture of anticipation and dread swirling in my stomach. Part of me is counting down the hours until I see him again, while another part of me is terrified of what might happen if this goes on any longer.
I’m ripped from my writing by a knock at my front door. I glance at the clock and see that it’s barely after lunch. An odd time for Saint to show up here.
Maybe it’s Mari.
I close my laptop, hoping for Saint to be at the door rather than either of the Longsetters. It would be a nice reprieve from work, considering it’s been more than forty-eight hours since I last saw him. I’m starting to have withdrawals.
Maybe he is too.
I entertain changing into an actual outfit, considering I’m just in my nightgown, but that sounds like too much effort, and I’m too tired from the writing marathon to give a shit.
I glance toward the window overlooking the front yard, expecting to see Saint’s car, but I immediately stop walking.
My stomach drops at the sight of the car in my driveway. That’s not Saint’s car.
That’s Shephard’s car.
Shit.
Shit, fuck, shit!
What is he doing here? This was supposed to be my time, my space to write, to disconnect from everything else, including my family. Especially my family. Oh, God. Did he bring the girls with him?
The panic sets in, rising up through my chest like a wave threatening to swallow me whole. I can’t even believe this. Shephard never shows up to my writing weeks unannounced. We have an understanding. This is my retreat, my sanctuary, the one place where I’m supposed to be able to escape the real world, where I can focus on my work and nothing else.
But now, my carefully constructed bubble has been burst, and I have no idea how to piece it back together.
Just as I’m turning toward my bedroom to make sure nothing of Saint’s was left behind, Chloe cups her little hands around her eyes and presses her face against the window.
“Mommy!” she squeals, her voice muffled by the glass but unmistakable in its excitement. She backs away from the window, pointing inside at me, her grin wide and full of joy. “Daddy, I see Mommy!”
Shephard is looking through the window now too. His expression is one of complete happiness, like he’s giving me the best surprise in the world. He waves at me, his smile a thing I’d like to wipe off his face right now.
“Surprise!” he yells, his voice carrying through the glass, as if this is exactly what I would have wanted.
I feel like I’m walking through quicksand as I move toward the door. Each step is slow, deliberate, as I try to wrap my mind around what’s happening. My heart is pounding in my chest, my pulse loud in my ears. I glance around the living room, my eyes scanning this area, too, for any signs of Saint—anything that might give away what’s been going on here since I left home.
There’s nothing obvious, nothing that screams infidelity, but the memory of him is everywhere. It lingers in the air, in the sheets on my bed, in the scent of him still clinging to my skin.
What have I done?
What the fuck was I thinking?
Saint might come back today. He’ll likely come back today. That’s been his routine during all of this. An intense day here, a break there, another intense day, another break. Today is on schedule for an intense Saint day, and that absolutely cannot happen. It jolts me, and I realize with a sinking feeling that I need to text him as soon as possible and let him know not to show up here.