Bad Husband

by Elise Faber

  That’s an I-miss-you and I-hate-to-go-but-I’m-at-my-first-meeting-no.

  Damn, he wrote. But I love you anyway.

  A gif of hearts in return that had him grinning.

  Good luck, sweetheart. Not that you need it.

  Night, Clay. Talk to you soon.

  Clay ate in front of his TV, catching the final minutes of a Gold Hockey game—they won because Brit Plantain was an absolute beast in the net—before taking his computer with him into his bedroom.

  He was just about to fall asleep when his phone beeped with an incoming call.

  Thinking it was Heather, he picked it up from the nightstand then frowned at the unfamiliar number. “Hello?”

  “Uh. Mr. Steele?”

  “Yes,” he snapped, wondering who in the fuck had the balls to call him at nearly one in the morning.

  “It’s Steven, Rebecca Darden’s associate. I just . . . she said you were handling negotiations?”

  “This couldn’t wait until morning?”

  “I-uh-this seemed important.”

  Clay was exhausted, missing Heather, and feeling impatient, but he forced himself to give the poor man a break. His next question was more even-keeled. “What’s happening, Steven?”

  “Well, we didn’t get a counteroffer exactly. It’s weird because I thought this was a joint project between Steele and RoboTech, but this looks like—”

  “The point, please, Steven.”

  The other man coughed. “Helix didn’t send an explicit counteroffer. Instead, they sent RoboTech’s offer over with a note that this was your one opportunity to beat it.”

  What in the fuck? “They want us to beat our own offer?”

  How wrong had he and Heather been about Helix?

  “No. This offer isn’t the joint one between Steele and RoboTech. It’s one that RoboTech submitted on its own.”

  Clay was clearly delusional because he thought that Steven had said—

  The kid had to be mistaken.

  “Just email me all of the paperwork, and I’ll take a look in the morning, okay?”

  “Okay, Mr. Steele. But I think—”

  “Goodnight, Steven.” He clicked off.

  Five minutes later the email came through, and confused and irritated and unable to turn off his brain, Clay opened up the files.

  “What the—?”

  He struggled to comprehend exactly what he was reading.

  Because it looked like Heather had taken the opportunity to undercut their joint bid. To offer more capital for a smaller percentage of the company. To attempt to screw him over while securing a damned good deal for RoboTech.

  There was absolutely no way that could be right.

  They were in the deal together, and Heather may be a serious businesswoman, but she’d never been underhanded or unethical.

  Two things the offer in front of him definitely was.

  The first thing he did after reading through the files was call Heather. The phone rang once then went directly to voice mail.

  Clay left a message, explaining what had been sent. Then he hung up and went over the files again as he waited for a callback.

  And waited.

  Another call. A single ring then voice mail again.

  The same thing happened several hours later when he called after her last scheduled meeting of the day.

  Seriously concerned and knowing that her assistant was holding down the home fort on this trip, Clay called Rachel.

  She answered after a couple of rings. “Hey, Clay.” Her voice was harried. “Everything good? No—not that one,” she said to someone in the background before returning back to him. “Sorry, it’s all hands on deck here with the deals in play.”

  “Heather good?” he asked, wondering what deals she was referring to. “I haven’t heard from her.”

  “She’s fine,” Rachel replied. “I chatted with her a few minutes ago about the Helix thing. But I need to get her a new— Damn. No! Not that one. Sorry, Clay, I have to go—”

  “Bye,” he said, but she’d already clicked off.

  He tried Heather’s cell again, immediately received her voice mail in return.

  What the hell was going on? Had he done something? Had—?

  His phone pinged with a new email, and when he saw it was from Heather, he breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe cell service was crappy and his calls hadn’t been able to get through?

  That relief lasted for the barest of moments.

  Or only as long as it took for her message to load.

  Clay,

  It’s over

  He blinked, trying to understand. There had to be something he was missing.

  But when he called her again, it went straight to voice mail.

  It’s over?

  How could it possibly be over?

  Twenty-Three

  Heather

  * * *

  This trip had not gone as Heather had planned.

  First, she’d dropped her phone in the toilet while rushing between one meeting and the next—stupid staying hydrated nonsense—then her laptop had up and died in the middle of video conferencing with Rachel and asking her to overnight her a new phone. She’d barely gotten it started back up and had been in the middle of emailing Clay to explain that she didn’t have her phone and that her computer was on the fritz before it died again.

  Ugh. Technology.

  Heather had managed to power through the multiple shutdowns and get a second, and hopefully complete, email out to Clay.

  Luckily, Rachel was really good at her job. Even with the middle of the night wakeup punctuated by failed technology, her assistant had been lucid enough to text the driver information to be passed along to Heather—a new phone would be waiting in Berlin.

  Clay should be up in the next few hours and would hopefully get the emails she’d sent.

  And maybe by the time she made it to Berlin, they could break in the FaceTime feature on her new phone.

  Grinning at the thought, Heather shoved the ruined phone—encased in a zip-top bag—deep down in her tote bag. Conveniently, it lay right next to the ruined laptop.

  She rolled her eyes. Technology, man.

  “I have the rest of your trip’s schedule, Ms. O’Keith,” Bill, her driver said. “I’ll get it printed for you, so you can have it until your new phone arrives.”

  “Paper,” she quipped. “So old-fashioned.”

  Bill chuckled. “Pretty soon it won’t exist at all.”

  “If only they made waterproof phones.”

  “That’s probably not too far off.”

  “No,” Heather said with a laugh. “Then the cell companies wouldn’t sell as many replacement phones.”

  A tip of Bill’s hat. “And that’s why you’re the businesswoman and I’m just the driver.”

  “Your job is very important.”

  “In some ways”—he pulled to the curb, putting the car into park and coming around to open her door—“yes, it’s important. In others, not as much. But I like it and that’s really the key to a happy life.”

  She raised a brow. “No happy wife, happy life?”

  “That, too.” He closed the door behind her. “Try and make sure you’re down here at half past three so we can get you to that last meeting on time. Rachel has already emailed me”—he held up his working cell phone, the lucky bastard—“so, I’ll have your old-fashioned paper itinerary ready by then.”

  “Thanks, Bill,” she said, slipping her tote onto one shoulder and making a mental note to call his boss and report that he’d really gone above and beyond for her. “See you at three-thirty.”

  “Crazy American. It’s half past three.”

  Since they’d had this conversation many times over in the two years since she’d taken over RoboTech, Heather just rolled her eyes, gave a wave goodbye, and headed into her next meeting.

  Berlin was a complete and utter shit-show.

  She’d had the IT department take a look at her laptop, and it was dea
der than a doornail. Luckily all her data was backed up to the secure cloud and they’d provided her with a new computer, but the operating system was in German, and while she may be able to speak a word here or there, she was nowhere near fluent enough to operate it.

  In the end, she’d given it back and just pinned her hopes on getting her new cell phone when she checked into the hotel.

  But when it rained, it poured, because her room hadn’t been ready at the hotel. She’d waited in the bar, reading—the only perk of no technology—for several precious hours until one had become available.

  Further that, her package with her new phone hadn’t shown up, and it wasn’t until she called the front desk, the concierge, and then the mailroom itself before she discovered that no, it had been delivered, but no one knew quite where it was.

  Blowing out a breath, she flopped back onto the bed and closed her eyes.

  She’d need to figure out how to set the alarm clock in the room since she didn’t trust wake-up calls. The last time she’d scheduled one, it hadn’t come and she’d been late.

  So alarm.

  Then she would try and sort out how to make a long-distance call to the States, because she didn’t care how much it cost.

  She just really missed hearing Clay’s voice.

  Sighing and promising that she would only lie there for a couple of minutes, Heather let her body relax into the mattress.

  The phone rang what felt like minutes later, but when Heather glanced at the clock, she saw that hours had, in fact, passed.

  Another sharp trill set her in motion, and she snatched up the receiver. “Hello?”

  A woman’s voice spoke in slightly accented English. “Ms. O’Keith?”

  “Yes.” She cleared her throat, trying to erase the fact that she’d slept the evening away. “Have you managed to locate my package?”

  “Ah, yes. It’s actually at our other hotel.”

  She frowned. Weird. “Oh, okay. So, someone will drive it over?”

  “Uh—”

  “What is it?” Heather asked, knowing by the other woman’s hesitation that she definitely wasn’t going to like where this conversation was going.

  “Well, the package is in the other hotel.”

  And no more words.

  “You said that,” she prompted.

  “The other hotel isn’t in Germany.”

  Heather rubbed her temples. “Where is it then?” If it was in Italy, she could survive one more day without it.

  Thank God, she’d packed her paperbacks.

  “It’s in Moscow.”

  Now it was her turn for no more words.

  “Ms. O’Keith?” the woman asked after a long moment of silence.

  “Yes, I’m still here. Please just have them mail it to this address”—she rattled off the information for her office north of San Francisco, thinking at this point, she would probably beat it there.

  And at any rate, with the way this trip was going, it would be easier for her to buy a cheap disposable phone and just use it until her trip ended.

  “I will do that, Ms. O’Keith,” the woman said. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

  Heather thanked her, knowing it wasn’t the woman on the phone’s fault—but still argh!—then hung up.

  Two more days and she’d be home.

  A quick shower to wash her face, a few minutes to brush and floss, and a pair of cozy pajamas later, and Heather was more relaxed.

  It would all be fine.

  The shops were already closed, but that wasn’t a big deal, she would pick up a phone in the morning. Maybe she’d even send Clay a naughty text or two from the unknown number, just to see what he’d do.

  Smirking and settling back onto her bed with her newest book in hand, she let the plot of the contemporary romance lull her into sleepiness. She probably should have been working, going over her notes for tomorrow’s meeting, but dammit, she was lonely and without technology—and Clay and Netflix.

  So, she figured she’d earned a little hooky time.

  And bonus, she figured out how to set the alarm clock so that she could make her scheduled flight time to Milan in the morning. She’d even built in time for the phone pit stop.

  Go her.

  It was just after midnight when she put the book down and flicked off the light.

  Probably the earliest she’d gone to bed in ages, especially considering her multi-hour nap that afternoon.

  But fuck it all, she was tired and at loose ends, so she’d let sleep take her under.

  The hotel phone rang just over five hours later. Scrabbling with a sleep-muddled brain, Heather managed to grab the receiver and bring it up to her ear. “Yeah?”

  Maybe they’d found out that her package wasn’t in Moscow after all?

  But it wasn’t the woman from the night before on the phone.

  Instead, the voice belonged to pretty much the last person she expected to call her at zero-dark-thirty, in the middle of a business trip.

  “Heather Isabelle O’Keith!”

  “Bec?” she asked, still groggy.

  “Yes, of course, it’s me,” her friend snapped.

  Aware that she wasn’t at her peak level of mindfulness, Heather asked, “What’s wrong?”

  Which was the absolute wrong thing to ask when Bec was in this kind of mood.

  “Wrong?” her friend shrieked. “What’s. Wrong?”

  Heather sat up, rubbed a hand across her eyes. “Bec, I love you, but it’s barely five and I’m still half asleep, what’s going on?”

  “What’s going on is that I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for hours.” Bec’s voice was at an ear-piercing level of shrill now.

  “Why? Is there something wrong with the Helix deal?”

  Maybe there had been some huge issue and they’d needed both hers and Clay’s opinion on it, and since she’d been unreachable—

  A sharp, irritated sound punctuated the phone’s speaker. “This doesn’t have to do with business.”

  Since she was feeling tired and confused and, yes, by now more than a little frustrated, Heather snapped out, “Then what, Bec? What in the fuck is so important that you’re calling me now, in full-on New Jersey housewife mode?”

  “First, I resent that comment,” her friend announced. “Second, I resent that comment.”

  “Bec,” she warned.

  “No,” Bec said. “You don’t get to use that tone, not when you’ve been keeping secrets.”

  Her gut twisted, and she clenched the receiver tightly. “About what?”

  “I think you know.”

  She did know of one thing that would get Bec all riled up like this, but she hadn’t expected, hadn’t thought . . .

  Things had been going so well.

  And yet, it made perfect sense.

  Of course, it couldn’t last.

  Of course, it wouldn’t work.

  “About what?” she asked again, needing Bec to say the words.

  “Why in the fuck do I have a marriage license with yours and Clay Steele’s names on it?”

  Heather’s eyes slid closed, and she collapsed back against the headboard, clenching the receiver tightly, waiting for the bomb to drop.

  “Why is it sitting on my desk?” Bec went on. “With a note requesting an annulment as quickly as possible?”

  That tiny tendril of hope that she’d been holding on to so carefully, protecting so tightly under the armor of her heart shriveled up and died. It turned to ash, right along with Clay’s declaration of love, right along with her own tender feelings.

  She’d known it was all too good to be true. She’d known.

  Relationships weren’t in her DNA.

  But apparently, broken hearts were.

  Twenty-Four

  Clay

  * * *

  He still hadn’t heard from Heather.

  Clay had thought she would have something to say about the annulment, but apparently, It’s over was enough of an ending. “Fuck,” he mutt
ered, glancing at the clock on his laptop screen and knowing that she’d officially been back for more than twenty-four hours.

  And he was sitting in his office well after midnight, trying to figure out how to move on with his life.

  The Helix deal was on permanent hold.

  His other business dealings were well in hand.

  He wasn’t needed here, or frankly anywhere at the moment, and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to go back to his empty apartment.

  Home had become that house north of the city owned by a beautiful blonde.

  But Heather didn’t want him.

  That much had become clear.

  He’d called forty-eight times. He’d sent a message to her hotel. He’d emailed. He’d texted copious amounts of gifs.

  All with no response.

  And so, as much as he wanted to demand answers from Heather, to demand a fucking explanation for torpedoing the deal, for ghosting him, for cutting him more deeply than any other person on the planet ever had, Clay knew he had to set her free.

  He loved her, so damned much. He wouldn’t force her to stay.

  Not when she didn’t feel as strongly.

  “Fuck,” he said again, pushing up from his desk, his hand on the top of his laptop, readying to close the screen.

  Ping.

  An email.

  His heart beat a little faster before he caught himself. Heather wouldn’t email at this point. That ship had more than sailed, and it was important he remember that. Still, remembering didn’t stop him from clicking over to his inbox, and it certainly didn’t stop his pulse from speeding up until it was a rapid tattoo in his chest when he saw that the sender was, in fact, Heather.

  Fingers trembling, he opened the message.

  Hey Handsome,

  Sorry my last message cut off. My laptop has decided to go to that sunny, rainbow-filled place beyond the clouds. Worse than that, and my point of the previous message (which I’m not sure actually went through since the computer went completely black the moment I hit send), is that my life is over! Okay, maybe not, but my phone took a dive in the toilet—insert puking sound here—and so I’m woefully disconnected from the world. Hopefully the replacement will get here soon and the IT department can fix my computer, but if not, know that I love you so much and that I’m missing you.