Rachel shoots me a side-eye and I realize what I said, and how I said it.
“This is hard.”
“You still love him.” It’s not a question.
“It’s hard not to. If he had cheated, if he’d been messing around, if he was an asshole… I could get over him. But he’s a good guy.”
“You think he’s abstained the whole time you’ve been gone?”
I bristle at her sardonic tone. Simon’s a good-looking guy. With a nice body. And a huge bank account. He also has a charming personality to match. “I honestly think so. He’s too busy working.”
She stares at the girls sprinting across the field. I search the playground and spot Maddy’s bright yellow shirt that I made her wear just so I can pick her out from a distance.
“Would it matter if he did?” she asks. There’s genuine curiosity in her voice.
“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Would it matter to him if you had dated between then and now?”
“Maybe. When he commits, he commits hard.” It’s a trait I used to love about him.
“Okay. So he’s staying with you. You’ve even kissed. He’s probably been single the whole time and you have too. What happens if you try to work things out?”
I chew the inside of my cheek as I think, but as always, I come up with the same answer. “He won’t divorce Gainesworth Equity and I can’t share my husband.”
Rachel pins me with her direct amber stare. “Then set your limits and stick to them, or we’re going to recycle the same conversations we had last year, only I think it’ll be harder on you to lose him a second time.”
Chapter 8
Natalie
Simon’s late. He mentioned speaking at a luncheon today but that he’d be around tonight.
I’m making headway on my own business. Last night, I crafted a rough draft of my ad. My heart rate kicks up when I think about posting it.
I have some IRS business to take care of and a new bank account to open. If Simon follows through with all the evenings this week, I can get it done.
Then I’ll be ready to launch in August.
I think about the talk with Rachel a couple of days ago. At soccer, we didn’t discuss Simon. There was nothing to discuss. Tuesday was like Monday. He ate the leftovers I had in the fridge for supper and tucked the girls in. The only time I was disturbed was when they came in to give me goodnight hugs and kisses.
The clock ticks past seven. I might as well write off tonight.
I herd the kids to their bedroom and we pick up toys.
Abby plops on the floor next to me. “What’s wrong, Mom?”
“Nothing. Why?”
She lifts a small shoulder. “Dunno. You just seem sad.”
I put my arm around her shoulder. “I’m fine, thanks for asking. Let’s get the dirty clothes off the floor and then you two can go take your baths.”
Abby jumps up. “I call Mom’s bathroom!”
“No fair.” Maddy stomps out of the room.
The bathroom fight. I was hoping to skip it just this once. “Whose turn is it?”
“But—” Abby’s eyes go wide and she leaps for the door. “Daddy!”
I look over my shoulder. Simon’s in the doorway, fielding hugs. His suit jacket is off, the tie is gone, and he’s undone the top two buttons of his shirt.
He has a nice chest and I feel every minute that I haven’t seen it without a shirt. I rise, so glad to see him that I’m embarrassed. It isn’t that I want to rush off to the office. It’s that for the third day in a row he’s kept his word.
Is it possible that he can change?
Do I want to risk finding out?
I stuff those questions away. He’s done nothing but co-parent all week. We’ve been little more than two ships coming in and out of dock at opposite times.
He straightens and leans against the doorjamb. “Sorry I’m late.”
His apology is sincere. “There are leftover fajitas in the fridge.”
He groans. “That sounds delicious. All right, girls, take your baths, don’t argue over the bathroom.”
I grin. As if that’s really going to work. I leave him to wrangle bath and bedtime and head to the office. The door clicks shut behind me and it’s quiet.
My mind isn’t on work. I have a to-do list, but I don’t want to look at it. I open my laptop and scroll through the work I’ve done. The next thing I know, I have the internet pulled up and I’m searching information about Gainesworth Equity.
The usual articles about his brother’s death appears. The bachelor article. I skip past. I know exactly how eligible he is.
I find an obscure business site with a write up about the abrupt withdrawal of Graham Morgan’s interest in the companies Simon was after. My search changes to Graham Morgan. There are some old articles about the company he ran with Simon’s brother. A feature on his wife and kid.
Is he a workaholic like Simon? Was he and did he change after he married? Does his wife work or did she give up her life for his?
Nope, she has her own career. She works for an advice column called Ask Ida.
I sit back and tap my fingers on the desktop. An advice column. Does she give the advice, or does this Ida person write it? Is Ida real?
My finger has a life of its own as it taps the Need Advice? button. A white box pops up.
I chew on my lip. I can’t possibly think writing to an advice column will do any good. They probably get so many queries that they can’t or don’t answer them all.
Still, it can’t hurt to write out the conflicting thoughts in my head to a neutral party that doesn’t know either of us.
Dear Ida,
I divorced my workaholic husband, but we have two kids. I recently went through a family emergency and he’s been a rock. He’s even staying with me to help out. And he’s actually taking time off work to do it.
We kissed once and I made it clear that it was over between us. But what if it’s not? I think we’re both starting to wonder if we can make it work if we try again. I can’t help but feel like his career would still be his wife and I’ll only be the mistress. He’s a good guy or this wouldn’t be so hard.
I signed it Eligible Ex-wife and left my email for a reply.
My face is hot and I press my hands against my cheeks. I take some deep breaths to slow down the pounding of my heart. I wrote a letter to someone who doesn’t know me. My email doesn’t have my full last name, but I feel as exposed as if I strolled through the streets naked.
Okay, I have to work.
I pull up my ad and tweak it, then make some copies to adjust them for individual ad platforms. I puff out a breath. The rest of my to-do list doesn’t excite me and since I’m emotionally off-kilter, I pick a fun task.
Design a logo.
I haven’t stretched my graphics skills in years. An hour has passed when my computer dings. I have an email. Ignoring it, I keep working until I see Ask Ida flash at the top of my screen.
A reply? Already? They’re only an hour ahead in New York, but it’s still late.
Some poor intern is likely assigned to my email, but at least I’m getting a reply instead of seeing it posted on their site.
I pull up their message.
Dear Eligible Ex-wife,
Go with your gut. And by that, I mean your intuition, not the part of you that gets all tingly when he’s in the room. Just like women know when their man is cheating and won’t change, they know when their guy makes work their identity over being a husband or dad.
Ida.
I reread the message. Then read it again.
Go with my gut.
My common sense tells me he doesn’t understand the base of the divorce in the first place. Those parts Ida mentioned absolutely tingle whenever he’s around. My hopes are that last week and this week mean something major has shifted inside of him. My heart wants it to be true.
My gut tells me he hasn’t changed.
* * *
Simon
“Mr. Waterson wants to be updated on his portfolio.” Helena lists another item on her never-ending to-do list. She doesn’t even bother to sit down in my office, but hovers in the doorway like she’s going to make a run for it.
I look at the time. It’s almost six-thirty. I’ve managed to get home to give Natalie alone time by seven each night but one. But every day it’s a juggle. Right as I want to walk out the door, Helena flags me down. I hoped Friday would be different.
“Can you review it and give him a call back?” I scribble a note down to follow-up on an earlier meeting with a client.
“He expressly said he wants you to review his file and be the one to call him back.”
Fucking misogynistic prick. Mr. Waterson and I aren’t buds. There’s no reason he should insist on only me. I never lose my composure in front of staff, so I hold in my insult. “Fine. Pull up his profile.”
“Done. There’s also a message from Dan Lancaster.”
I can guess Lancaster spent the day on the greens with his buddies and is coming at me with horrible investing ideas. Helena’s gotten good at assuaging his concerns. “I’ll give Mr. Waterson a call. You can take Lancaster and then we can both get out of here.”
Her mouth tightens but she dips her head. She goes back to her desk. I make a mental note to ask her if everything’s okay in her talks with Lancaster. He’s a micromanager at the core, but I doubt he was rude with her.
I whip through Mr. Waterson’s information and give him a call. He boasts about how dedicated we are for working on a Friday night and I let him think that I’m hunkered down at my desk and not one foot out the door.
I hang up with him, shut everything down, and lock up my office. Helena’s at her desk with Lancaster on speaker as she reviews his file with him and why we made the decisions we did and why his ideas aren’t as profitable.
I give her a wave goodnight, trusting her to lock up behind me. She dips her head again, but focuses on her screen. I’m dismissed.
Fighting residual guilt that her task took longer, I drive home. To the house. To Natalie’s place. Home sounds better. Couples and families with kids are out everywhere. The days are long this time of year and the evening weather is ideal for just about anything that takes place outside.
When I pull into the driveway, I spot our neighbors from down the road walking my way. Their daughter that’s about Maddy’s age is on a bike, weaving all over the road.
“Simon,” Jake calls. “Nice to see you around.”
I walk to the edge of the driveway. “I’m helping Natalie out.”
“Yeah, she told me about her mother. Glad she’s getting better.”
“Me, too. It takes a lot to get Janie down.”
Jake’s wife Sierra catches her daughter and stops her before she gets too far ahead. “Your yard was hopping earlier today. She had a friend’s kids over and I thought Gemma was going to spring through the yards to come play.”
“I doubt Natalie would’ve minded.” It’s not my yard anymore, but I hang on the details. My condo’s missing this. I don’t know my neighbors and I rarely pass them on the stairs or the few times I take the elevator. I don’t know their names and wouldn’t recognize them if I passed them on the street.
Here, we know everyone. We even like everyone. Jake threw a neighborhood party two years ago. I missed last summer’s but Natalie said it was a blast.
Jake smiles and puts his hand on his wife’s lower back. “We’ll let you get going. Just wanted to say hi.”
“Nice night for a walk. Enjoy.” Glad Jake cut our chat short to spare us all awkwardness about how much I’m helping Natalie, I jog to the door.
The house is quiet, but I listen at the top of the stairs. They’re in the movie room.
I leave my suit jacket on a hook by the door and take my tie off. I slip out of my shoes and go downstairs. Natalie’s curled up in a plush recliner, with a girl on either side, a bucket of popcorn between them. The kids are in pajamas and their hair’s wet and combed out.
“Hi.” Natalie pauses the movie. “I don’t think I’m up for working tonight. Will you feel terribly taken advantage if I do movie night instead?”
It sounds like a perfect Friday night. Thank you to Rachel’s kids for wearing Natalie out. “Not if I get to join in. Which princess movie is it? Which one has the dog?”
Maddy giggles. “It’s Scooby-Doo, Daddy.”
“I’ll go change and be back.”
I run up the stairs to my room. Back in my dad uniform of shorts and a T-shirt, I swing by the kitchen to grab a sandwich and chips for my supper.
By the time I get downstairs, Natalie has sunk lower in her chair and covered herself with a red plaid throw.
When the movie’s over, I get the girls to clean up their mess and lead them upstairs. Natalie’s dozing, but I’m sure she’ll wake up by the time I return. The movie kept the girls up past their bedtime and combined with the playdate, they’re asleep in no time.
I go back downstairs. Natalie’s curled into the corner of the recliner, her face peeking out of the top of the blanket. How upset would she be if I took a picture of this? I won’t, but it doesn’t diminish the yearning to see my wife peacefully sleeping each night.
Do I wake her up? Let her sleep here all night? Carry her to bed?
That would be overstepping my bounds. But she’s fallen asleep watching movies before and gets the worst crick in her neck.
Can’t have that.
I gently peel the blanket off her. She doesn’t twitch. Sliding my arms under her, I lift her to my chest. She resettles in my arms with her head on my shoulder.
Carefully I make my way to her bedroom without banging her feet on the doorway or walls.
Her side of the bed is rumpled and unmade. I was the bed maker in the marriage. Easing her into bed, I preserve the memory of how good she feels in my arms.
She moans and rolls on her side. “Don’t go.”
Did I hear her right? “You want me to stay?”
She pats the other side of the bed. My side. “Don’t go.”
That’s all the asking she needs to do. I crawl in beside her, but over the covers. I drape the comforter over her and she wiggles until her ass is pressed into my groin.
This might’ve been a bad idea. The fabric between us is not enough to hide her curves and how perfectly we fit together.
It’s going to be a long night.
Chapter 9
Simon
When was the last time I woke up this refreshed?
My awareness rises with each heartbeat. There’s a head nuzzling my chest and a leg thrown over my hip. I can barely think with the raging erection sucking up all the blood that should be going to my brain.
I blink my eyes open and inhale the light floral scent of a mass of hair under my chin. My shirt is up and hands are roaming my chest.
I’m in Natalie’s bed and she’s attacking me.
After her reaction to our kiss, I didn’t think she’d be this responsive to waking up and finding out she asked me to stay in bed with her.
She nuzzles my neck and I get painfully harder. A groan rips out of my throat and is met with an approving moan.
She strokes her hands lower and tunnels her fingers between my stomach and waistband. Air freezes in my chest. Her fingertips brush the tip of my cock. My eyelids drift shut and I thrust my hips into her hand.
Her leg tightens around my waist and the move pulls me into her. I’m putty in her hands, except for one really, really hard body part.
“Yes, Natalie.”
She rolls back, her eyes are still closed, but she has a sleepy smile. When she cuddles back into my chest, dread creeps in.
She can’t… she can’t still be asleep… can she?
I shudder when she shoves her hand farther into my shorts. Fuck, it feels so good.
“Natalie?”
All I get is a little murmur.
I catch her arm, but her hand is fisted around my cock
. My body’s shaking, wanting nothing more than to jack my hips back and forth until I get off in someone else’s hand besides my own.
“Natalie,” I bark.
She jerks her head back, her eyes bleary but clearing fast.
“Simon!” Her eyes fly wide and she rips her hand away so fast my waistband snaps against the tip of my dick.
“Ow. Shit.” I roll to my back. I can’t rub my crotch to soothe the burn, so I rock like I’m a turtle stuck on my back. The whole effect diminishes my erection. That’s the only saving grace of this moment.
She rolls off the bed and looks down at herself as if she’s afraid she’s without a stitch of clothing. Her scowl gets directed to me. “What the hell are you doing in my bed?”
“You asked me to stay.”
She scoffs and plants her hands on her hips. “When?”
Irritation seeps in. I sit up, wincing at the pinch in my groin. “Last night, when I carried you to bed. You asked me twice.”
“I wasn’t awake.” She says it as if I should’ve known that she has complete conversations in her sleep. She never did with me when we were married. Before kids, we woke up frisky and got busy like this morning, but she was always awake.
“How was I supposed to know? You were talking.”
She shoves her hair off her face, her expression thunderous. “Was I talking this morning?”
I let out a long breath. I can see why she’s upset, but I also don’t think I did anything wrong. I wanted to. “No. When I saw your eyes were closed…” I shake my head and roll off the other side of the bed and start straightening the sheets and blankets. “I slept on top of the covers, okay? Nothing happened.”
Her stance relaxes and she glances toward the open bedroom door. “Good.”
A stab of hurt pierces my chest. She can’t really be done with me. Just like that? The burn grows and I need space. “I’ll go make some breakfast.”
“Sure. Yeah.” She stabs a hand through her hair to push it off her face. “Um… this weekend isn’t your regular weekend with them if you want to head out. I think I’ve got it from here.”
Eligible Ex-husband Page 7