Lucy was about to pour the drippings from the bacon for the Alfredo into an empty jar when I redirected her with a wooden spoon to the garbage disposal down our sink.
“Seriously? It’ll clog up your pipes.”
“Don’t run the water either,” I shot back.
She grinned, but did as I told her and poured the grease down the disposal.
I was still rebelling in small, mundane ways. Keeping him on his toes. Showing him that just because we shared a bed—and enough sex to make me walk all wobbly the day after—didn’t mean that I was an agreeable little wife. So far I have managed a few “accidents,” including breaking his iPad, staining his favorite suit with white sauce and keying his Maserati. The headboard we broke together, so that wasn’t exactly just on me.
“Look at you, all grown up and having detached sex.” Lucy gave voice to my thoughts, talking over the grinding of the disposal. “How can you hate him, doing everything you can to show him just how much, and still sleep with him at night?”
I didn’t hate my husband, but somehow, I was horrified by the concept of admitting it aloud.
I downplayed the whole situation by offering a half-assed shrug, wiping my oily hands on a paper towel. “It’s just sex. If I didn’t do it with him, I would have ended up having to stay a virgin until he dropped dead. Even I’m not stupid enough to cheat on a Brennan.”
Now that Connor was out of the picture, I spent more time in our neighborhood, cleaning and cooking for Pops, and also more time with Lucy and Daisy. Lucy was in the loop again. Knew that I was sleeping in the master bedroom. Knew that my nights were warm this stormy, cold Boston summer. A summer that somehow was bleeding into an even worse New England fall.
My best friend was also privy to the fact that we shared civil conversations when my husband came home from work. He got back at reasonable hours, sans lipstick stains and the cloying cloud of flowery perfume of a woman who desperately wanted to be acknowledged.
One time he even took a bite of my famous blueberry pancakes. Yup, that sugary crap.
“Humor me here, sister.” Lucy started wrapping up some of the dishes in foil. “If he does happen to have feelings for you, would that change anything? I mean, would you ever consider treating this like…I don’t know, a normal relationship?”
I snorted into my chest, eyes firmly on the dishes in front of us. “No. Not unless he came clean about everything.”
Deep down, I knew that we would never be equals until he’d let me in on why he’d married me in the first place. I also knew that no amount of sex and small talk was going to prod the truth out of him. If I was detached, his heart was practically on another planet, nowhere near my own.
“Do you think he’ll ever come clean?”
My gut twisted in pain. “Honestly? Fat chance. I think people like Troy spread so many lies to hide their secrets, they drown in them and forget their own truths.”
But that wasn’t completely accurate. Troy was as comfortable in his sea of lies as a synchronized swimmer in an Olympic swimming pool. I was the one who was drowning in them.
Worst of all? I was feeding myself even more lies. Because I told myself I didn’t care. While slowly, he crept under my skin.
Piercing through layers.
Clawing his way deeper into me.
And I knew it was only a matter of time before he reached the most dangerous place in my body.
My heart.
SPARROW
THERE WAS A lot I didn’t like about my job at Rouge Bis. I didn’t like how Brock tried to worm his way into my good graces like we were friends, despite my best efforts to show him how uncomfortable I was around him after that kiss. I didn’t like Pierre’s attitude toward me, and the way he tried to come up with little, creative ways to make my life hell, just like I tried coming up with ways to piss off Troy.
But there was one thing I definitely looked forward to every shift—my break. When Brock wasn’t there to try and strike up a conversation, it was my favorite part of the day. I was granted thirty minutes and a choice of entrée to eat in a quiet corner of the restaurant, shielded from the rest of the tables and booths. It was my me time at work, before the hectic dinner service.
I was twirling a forkful of pasta, relishing the quiet when I heard a pair of heels approaching, clack-clacking on the floor like bullet fire in the dark. The woman’s hip swayed seductively as she strode in my direction on her stilettos. I smiled when I noticed she was wearing a pair of exactly the same shoes I’d worn on my first date with Troy, the ones Maria’s daughter had lent me.
But when I lifted my gaze from her feet to her face, my smile froze. Her glossy lips were pouted in disapproval as we drank each other in. I hadn’t seen Catalina Greystone since my wedding day.
She slid into the opposite bench of my booth and tossed a folded napkin over my plate to signal to me that dinner was over.
Stunned, I put the silverware down, tilting my chin up.
Her shoes.
My feet burned with anger. Catalina was Maria’s daughter.
Her eyes.
She was furious. Something had pissed her off, and it had everything to do with me.
“Looking for Brock?” My smile was raw. She was another secret Troy hadn’t shared with me.
“Actually, I was looking for you.”
The idea that Brock had told her we kissed crossed my mind briefly, but disappeared just as fast. He kissed you, silly. Not the other way around. Anyway, that was months ago. Why would Catalina suddenly confront me now?