I only get three paragraphs in before I’m dead to the world, sprawled out in bed with the sheets tangled around me like ivy.
That’s how Tucker finds me hours later when he gets home from work.
“Oh, my God, babe, what time is it?” I yawn after he gently wakes me. He looks handsome as always and genuinely happy to see me, but I can tell he’s tired.
“Just a bit after six.” He brushes his hand over my forehead and I instinctively lean in to his touch. “You ok, Bunny? Are you sick?”
“Yeah.” I yawn again, before stretching my limbs as lithely as a sleepy feline. “Just thought I’d take a half day. Had a lunch meeting that lasted longer than I expected and I was beat afterward.”
He loosens his navy blue silk tie—a gift from moi—while simultaneously kicking off his shoes. “Oh yeah? With who?”
My body begins to react reflexively, but before I can release the name from my tongue, I pause. Shit. How would he react if he knew I had met with Ransom? Would he question me about him? Would he suspect more than just a business lunch went down between us? I mean, if I’m truly being honest with myself, that meal had little to do with business. And if someone had seen us together, and it was splashed on the front of Page Six, do I really want my husband finding out this way? I hadn’t even told him that I had taken Ransom on as a client. How would he feel about me withholding that information from him?
I know how he would feel. Pissed. Betrayed. Hurt. All the emotions I would be struggling to swallow if the shoe was on the other foot.
“Um,” I stammer, as I climb out of bed. “Ransom Reed?”
“Ransom?” The name sounds more like a curse, more like an accusation.
“Yeah. He agreed to work with me. Crazy, right?” If I look as guilty as I sound, I’m screwed.
I force my eyes from the floor, where they have been fixed since I mentioned the illustrious rocker, and look to my husband. His expression isn’t one of outrage or jealousy. More than anything, he seems shocked. So much so, that he’s gripping his half-fastened shirt, hard enough to snap off the buttons.
“Yeah. Crazy.” I can see he’s trying to seem casual about it, but there are questions swimming in those deep blue eyes. Doubt. Perhaps even fear.
In an attempt to ease the discord that is undoubtedly tensing his broad shoulders, I plaster on a fake smile and traipse over to where he stands as still as stone. I place my lips to his cold, rigid mouth. At first, he doesn’t reciprocate, but as my warmth thaws his chilly demeanor, I feel him melt into me, responding with a firm yet sweet kiss.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, in my most appeasing voice—the voice I only unleash whenever I feel guilty or remorseful. “I could make you some soup and a sandwich. I’m still pretty full so I may just have a salad.”
“Soup and sandwich?” He frowns, and it’s the first sign of discontent that he’s shown me. For fucking food. “Where’s Lucia? It’s Wednesday.”
Right. Wednesday.
Every Wednesday, like clockwork, Lucia makes Tucker’s favorite, chicken enchiladas. She’s Dominican, but she loves him, so she makes it a point to fix him his favorite feast weekly. She goes all out too—rice, beans, homemade guacamole. They’re downright sinful, and Tuck hits the cardio extra hard on Thursday morning to afford them.
I hate enchiladas. Always have. So I usually end up eating salad, or settling for a liquid dinner consisting of fermented grapes.
It’s been like that for as long as I can remember. And like a bad wifey, I just deviated from the routine.
“I sent her home early, Tuck. I told her not to worry about it this week.”
He looks wounded, as if I purposely deprived him of his favorite source of sustenance. And maybe on some fucked up level, I did. Maybe I wanted to ruffle his damn rituals and push him just a bit to see how he’d react. To see if that same fire exists in those eyes that pierced right through me as I lay writhing on a borrowed bed last Friday night. The fury that forced him to roughly push me against the wall and fill the same space that Ransom had owned just hours before. I knew what he was doing—Tucker was marking me. Erasing the remnants of that stranger inside me with his dick. Cleansing my sullied shame with his hot seed.
I need to feel that again. I need to see that hunger and desire for me. Not some goddamn enchiladas.
“Yeah, sure,” he grumbles, as he continues to undress. He won’t look at me. I’ve offended him. Out of all the things I could have done and said today—out of all the reasons to hate me—it takes a lost pile of cheese, meat, and sour cream to insult him.
I throw together a sandwich for him with little finesse, not even bothering to dress it with his favorite condiments. There’s some leftover tomato bisque in the fridge and I heat that up too. When Tucker emerges from the bedroom, I’ve got his food waiting for him at the bistro table, along with a cold beer. See, I can be domestic. I can pose as the perfect wife that’s perfectly content with caring for her perfect husband.
“Looks great, babe,” he smiles before kissing me tenderly. The taste of irritation no longer rests on those too-full lips. He sits down and digs into his pedestrian meal as zestfully as if it were Lucia’s home cooking. Even when I give him a reason to be pissed at me, he doesn’t take the bait.
“Where’s your dinner?” he asks around a mouthful of pastrami.
“I ate too much at lunch. I actually want to get a little work done before it gets too late. Then maybe we can watch a movie?”
“Sure. Whatever you want, babe,” he nods, digging back into his food.
I ruffle his soft, brown waves and kiss the crown of his head lovingly. Tucker’s a good man, and I love him. And I’d be a fool to think that he doesn’t love me, considering what he’s supported me through . . . considering what he’s given me. And what have I done? Lusted for another man. But maybe it’s not the man that I want. Maybe it’s that brash, careless attitude. Or the arrogant swagger. Or the feeling of being soiled by him with just a vulgar word.
That’s just not Tucker. I knew that ten years ago, and I loved that about him. He never made me feel anything but safe and cherished. I didn’t have to worry about whether or not he was being honest about his feelings. There were no complicated layers or minced words. He was always Tucker—kind, generous, and compassionate.
Just as I will always be Heidi. I’m just not sure who that is anymore.
TONIGHT ON E! News . . .
A drug-related arrest, leaked photos with a suspected prostitute and a possible stint in jail.
Good evening, everyone. We’re talking about Evan Carr’s sudden fall from Manhattan royalty, and what may have caused some of his recent erratic behavior.
After his very public divorce months ago, Evan’s friends and family are truly worried for his life, saying that he’s “out of control” and in a “dangerous, self-destructive state of grieving.” Later on, we’ll hear from the woman rumored to have been his mistress during the time he was married to America’s sweetheart, Allison Elliot, who is now linked to intimacy coach and Evan’s half-brother, Justice Drake.
But first, we’ll get a behind-the-scenes sneak peek into the world of Ransom, the band that’s known for their sizzling sound, as well as their ubersexy style. Find out how you can get their smoking hot look at home—
I click off the television and release a resigned sigh. That’s enough Ransom Reed for one day. But just as I look over to my husband’s sleeping form, my cell vibrates on the nightstand at my side. Who the hell could that be? It’s not dreadfully late, but definitely past social hours.