Bad Husband

by Elise Faber

  Love,

  H

  P.S. I feel as though I should insert more puking sounds here because of the sheer sap level of that last sentence, but because it’s true, I’m leaving it.

  P.P.S. Can’t wait to see you. Only three days and six hours left to go.

  Clay reread the message three times before he finally understood . . . and realized exactly how much of a fucking idiot he’d been.

  Those weren’t the words of a woman who’d just double-crossed him. They were the warm, teasing words of the woman he loved, who loved him right back.

  Why hadn’t he waited for Heather to come back and talked to her?

  Why had he jumped to conclusions?

  Why hadn’t he trusted in what they were building?

  Because he was a fucking moron.

  “Goddammit,” he said, resisting the urge—barely—to launch his laptop across the room.

  Funny that he worked in technology and it had screwed him over with the woman he loved. Toilet-dunked phones. Mysteriously dying laptops. Emails arriving way too many days late.

  And because of that, he’d had the marriage license delivered to Bec, along with a request for the annulment. He’d taken their very private matter and turned it very public.

  Heather would never forgive him.

  He sank into his chair, head in his hands, fingers threatening to tear all the hair from his scalp. So, it was just as well that his cell rang right at that moment.

  Sure, fate, throw another thing on his plate.

  A swipe across the screen, a jab to turn it on speaker. “What?”

  “Uhh . . . Mr. Steele?”

  Steven. Bec’s junior associate.

  Clay sighed. “What is it, Steven?”

  “Um, well, I just wanted to get back to you as quickly as possible. I’ve been doing some research on the contracts from the Helix deal—”

  “The deal’s dead.”

  Steven coughed. “Well, I figured as much.” A pause. “But I also knew that something wasn’t quite right with the counteroffer they’d sent back. So I, um, went through all of the contracts and—” He broke off, papers rustling in the background.

  Clay strived for patience. “Get to the bottom line, please.”

  “The RoboTech offer didn’t originate from our office, and it hadn’t been approved by anyone in their acquisitions department, either.” The more Steven talked, the calmer he got, his words finally flowing in a way that didn’t make Clay want to reach through the phone and strangle him.

  Finally, some progress.

  “But,” Steven continued. “I didn’t quite understand what was happening until I got a call from one of my former associates. He was wondering why Steele Technologies had put in two offers on Helix.”

  Clay frowned. “What—?”

  “It wasn’t a mistake on our end. I checked. We sent the one offer, but when my friend sent me a copy of the second contract, it appeared almost identical.”

  “Almost?”

  “The numbers were different, obviously. But that wasn’t all. The logo had been altered slightly and while the signature on the final page matched yours, we didn’t have any digital confirmation that you’d actually signed the contract. Because all our contracts are handled electronically, there is always a signature confirmation. So, I went back and looked at the one from RoboTech.”

  Clay leaned back in his chair, already knowing the answer to his next statement. “They didn’t have any confirmation of Heather signing either.”

  “No.” Two letters that drove the knife of regret lodged in Clay’s heart even deeper. “Apparently, Helix has been trying to play both sides.”

  “And fucking up while doing it,” Clay said, furious.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Steven said. “But I thought you would need to know as soon as possible.”

  “You did the right thing,” Clay told him. “Both times.” He sighed, thinking of the mess he needed to untangle because he’d been hurt and impulsive. “Thank you for following this through until the end.”

  “Who needs sleep?” Steven joked, and Clay thought there might be for hope for him yet.

  After saying goodbye, they hung up and Clay stood, shoving his arms into his suit jacket. He knew he should probably wait until morning, but he went straight down to the garage and got into his car anyway.

  As he sped through the dark night, he called Heather, but it rang once before sending him straight to voice mail. He was sure she had a functioning cell phone by now, so he was probably blocked. Great.

  He hung up and though he knew it was wrong, especially considering the late hour and the fact that she wasn’t his assistant, he also called Rachel.

  It also rang once and went to voice mail.

  Shit.

  He drove the rest of the way in tense silence, fingers clenched on the steering wheel, his mind running a thousand miles per hour, even as he got no closer to figuring out a way to fix things.

  When he turned onto her street, he could see that the gate to Heather’s house was wide open. His heart clenched.

  It was fine. She had probably ordered a pizza or something.

  Except there weren’t any lights on in the front of the house and no cars in the driveway.

  Throat tight, he screeched through the gate, threw his car in park, and jumped out. A sprint to the front door, his fist rising to knock . . . only to find the door slightly ajar. At that point, Clay’s vision went black on the edges, his breaths short and shallow, and sweat broke out on the back of his neck. He frantically searched the dimly-lit hallway for signs of blood or broken glass.

  Heather walked out of the kitchen at that moment, a large black bag in one hand, two empty wine bottles in the other.

  Seeing him standing there, she screamed and dropped both the bottles and bag.

  Glass shattered, garbage exploded all over the floor, but all Clay felt was relief that Heather was alive.

  His legs buckled and he landed hard on his knees. She was okay.

  She was okay.

  “Clay,” she said tentatively. “I’m fine.”

  “Careful of the glass,” he rasped out when she made as though to come toward him. “Your feet are bare.”

  She glanced down, as if surprised to see the shattered bottles mere inches from her unprotected skin. “Let me get the broom.”

  A shake of his head as he pushed to his feet.

  His shoes crunched over the glass as he crossed to her and swept her up into his arms. Then held her for several long minutes.

  Until she stiffened and seemed to remember all that had happened over the last few days.

  “Please,” he said, carrying her over to the counter. “Just let me explain.”

  There were tears in Heather’s eyes, moisture that threatened to break him.

  She pointed. “The broom is in that cupboard.”

  Nodding, though he’d already known that, Clay took the hint and extracted the broom and dustpan. It only took a few minutes for him to sweep up the glass and dump it into the trash bag. Then several moments more to pack up the garbage and take everything out to the cans on the side of Heather’s house.

  That done, he locked up and returned the broom to the cabinet.

  Silence until—

  “What are you doing here?”

  A soft question, but one that was laced with so much hurt that it sliced Clay right to the quick.

  “I made a mistake. It—”

  She snorted. “Do you know what I was doing before you showed up? Why the gate was open and the lights were off?” He shook his head. “My friends came over to commiserate, to cheer me up because you’d broken me so thoroughly. In fact, your timing was about perfect because they’d just left, and I was finally feeling like myself again. I was finally f-feeling strong, and then you had to show up—” Tears streamed down her face. “I was just trying to take the fucking trash out, and you had to make a mess of things. And somehow, I’m the one who’s feeling bad? Terrible tha
t I’d scared you because I knew, because I understood just how much the unlocked door and dark house must have frightened you—”

  He closed the distance between them as her sobs cut off her words, wrapping his arms tightly around her. She pushed him away, but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t let go.

  “And . . . you . . . hurt me.” A sniff. “How could you send Bec the license without talking to me?”

  “I’m sorry, baby,” he said. “I’m so fucking sorry. I—” He began explaining about the contract and the forged offer from RoboTech, his unreturned phone calls, her partial email, the words pouring out of him. “I thought that it was your way of telling me that you didn’t want me.” He cupped her face, meeting her tear-filled eyes with his own. “And I couldn’t be the thing to force you to stay in a relationship that wasn’t making you happy, baby. Not when you’re so important to me. I couldn’t do that to you.”

  “So, you broke my heart instead.”

  Words spoken so flatly that ice spread through his gut. “I thought it was what you wanted.”

  Her cheeks went bright red, and she shoved at his chest. Hard.

  Hard enough that he staggered back a step as she slid from the counter and began pacing around the kitchen.

  “Dammit, Clay. You knew how hard it was for me to try and give us a real shot! You knew how hard it was for me to tell you that I loved you! And I did it!” She turned and ripped open the refrigerator door, grabbing a half-opened roll of cookie dough. She slammed it onto the counter, tore off a chunk, and shoved it into her mouth.

  He started to speak, but she pointed the roll at him, its yellow and black wrapper flapping with the motion. “Not a word about salmonella or so help me God, I will launch this right at your head.”

  Absurdly, the threat forced him to bite back a smile. Mad was so much better than hurt. He could deal with fury, but he couldn’t look into Heather’s pain-filled gaze and have any hope of making things right. Not when he’d hurt her so badly.

  “Baby—”

  “Don’t baby me,” she snapped, shoving another piece of dough into her mouth. “You fucked up royally, Clay Steele.”

  He closed the distance between them again, dared to push the roll away. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

  “You make me sick!” But then her chin wobbled, and Clay lost his heart all over again.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. So damned sorry.”

  She sniffed, buried her head in his chest. “You hurt me.”

  “I know.” He cupped the back of her head. “I’m so sorry.”

  She inhaled deeply, then let it back out. “I know. That’s what makes this harder.”

  “Yeah.”

  He allowed himself another minute to just hold her before dropping his arms and stepping back. “I’ll leave you to get some sleep.” He’d go that night, let her rest because she was hurt and upset and exhausted . . . but he was going to keep coming back every single chance he got. Until he proved to Heather that this was just a stupid, albeit horrendous, mistake, until she understood that she was his and his future wasn’t worth shit if she wasn’t in it.

  A smack to his chest. Not hard, but surprising enough that he stared down at her in open-mouthed shock.

  “You are a fucking idiot,” she said and launched herself back into his arms.

  “Wh—”

  “Shut up and kiss me.”

  Blindsided and confused but not stupid enough to deny such a request, Clay slid one hand behind her neck and slammed his lips down onto Heather’s. It wasn’t a gentle tangling of mouths, but all teeth and tongue, heat and desire.

  She broke away, tugging at his neck until her forehead rested against his.

  “No matter what”—a gasping breath as her eyes met his with blazing intent—“no matter what, you will talk to me, and you will trust that I’ll give you the same courtesy. Always. No excuses. I will never shut you out.” Her expression softened. “Never.” Her hand came up, resting on her chest, over her heart. “You’re here. You’re in my heart. Forever.”

  “I will love you until the day this”—he interlaced their fingers, bringing her hand to his own chest, where his own heart was pounding furiously—“stops beating. I will love you until the moment I leave this earth.”

  She rose on tiptoe, nuzzled his cheek then whispered, mischievous intent in her words. “Only until your heart stops beating? What about after?”

  Muscles relaxing, he brushed his knuckles down Heather’s cheek.

  “Always so demanding,” he teased.

  Her smile filled his heart to overflowing. “You know it.” A beat, her hands weaving into his hair again. “Now get down here and kiss me again.”

  In this case, Clay had no issues doing what he was told.

  Twenty-Five

  Heather

  * * *

  Heather was feeling unaccountably nervous as she stared at herself in the mirror three months later.

  She wore a white dress—short and sexy, but still white—and blue heels—courtesy of Abby, who held her newborn baby girl on one shoulder while she ran around the house, shouting orders every which way.

  “The flowers have to be evenly spaced across the mantel,” her sister-in-law declared, and because no one dared argue with a breastfeeding mother who held her newborn in her arms, her decrees were being followed left, right, and center. “No, evenly spaced.”

  Abby popped her head back into the bedroom. “This is awesome! Everyone is listening to me, and I mean everyone!” She came up behind Heather, used her free hand to smooth a nonexistent wrinkle. “Can I hire them to come live with me?” she stage-whispered. “No one listens to me there.”

  Heather smirked, but she also saw right through her sister-in-law. “I know what you’re doing.”

  “What?” Abby asked, all innocent, the faker.

  Rachel, who was wearing a killer red dress with matching red lipstick that went perfectly with the olive tone of her skin, smirked. “Abs, everyone knows what you’re doing.”

  Heather turned and hugged Abby tight, careful of baby Emma. “And I love you for it,” she said, softly.

  “Stop! I still have baby hormones, and you’re going to make me cry,” Abby wailed, but even as she sniffled, she held on to Heather for dear life. “Now I’ll have to redo my mascara.”

  “What’d I miss?” Bec asked, and Heather flicked her eyes to the mirror, smiling when her friend strolled in all lawyer-like, wearing a perfectly tailored black business suit that showed off her curves, her cell held in one hand, a briefcase in the other. She was all business as she extracted a white envelope . . . well, except for those killer heels.

  Those were sexy.

  Rachel filled her in. “Abby’s still hormonal, and Heather is feeling so sappy that she’s declared her undying love.”

  “Hey!” she and Abby said in unison, turning to glare at her assistant—now in job description only, since she was officially part of their group of friends in real life.

  “Because of that,” Heather added, pointing an accusing finger at Rachel. “No more pajamas for you.”

  Bec shuddered. “You fight mean, O’Keith.”

  “Not O’Keith for much longer,” she said, biting her lip.

  “Aw,” Abby chimed in as Rachel smiled wide and Bec’s eyes went suspiciously misty. “Damn, Heather,” she said, swiping one finger under her lashes. “You were my only hope.”

  “No crying without us!” CeCe said, hustling down the hall with Seraphina in tow.

  Colin, CeCe’s husband and one of Heather’s business partners, waved from the doorway. “Looking good, O’Keith,” he said in that yummy Scottish accent.

  “Steele,” Bec called. “Apparently she’s going to be a Steele.”

  Seraphina snorted. “She likes some Steele.”

  “Oh my God,” Rachel moaned.

  “What?” Seraphina said, plunking her hands onto her hips. The action made her considerable “assets” threaten to burst from her dress. “Why i
s it funny when you guys make a bad dirty joke, but it’s not when I do?”

  “Easy there, supermodel. It’s because you’re too sweet and innocent,” Bec teased, tugging up the front of Seraphina’s dress as their friend began to protest her innocence. At the same time, Abby moved forward to squeeze Sera’s arm, said, “We love you anyway,” and then moved to the mirror to fix her mascara.

  Newly returned from her ostentatiously long honeymoon, CeCe crossed the room to hug Rachel.

  “It’s nice to meet you in real life,” she said, the women only ever having chatted during their weekly videoconference book club meetings since CeCe had been too busy traveling the world to join them all in person.

  Their weekly Horny FaceTime—as they’d termed it—worked out well. Whoever was near enough to meet up, got together in person at someone’s house, and the rest conferenced in.

  Which is what Clay thought was happening that night at their house and as such, he’d made himself scare, meeting up with Jordan at Bobby’s for wings and a couple of beers.

  Meanwhile, Heather had called in the help of her friends.

  “Do you have it?” she asked Bec.

  Bec nodded, holding up the white envelope.

  The gate chimed, and Abby ran to the window, peeking out the curtains. “He’s here!”

  Heather hotfooted it over to the window, saw Clay’s blue Maserati pulling into the drive. He parked behind the line of cars in the driveway and got out, chatting with Jordan as they walked up to the front door.

  “Oh God,” she said, stepping back and releasing a shuddering breath. “Why am I so nervous?”

  “Because this time you won’t be drunk during the vows?” Rachel asked.

  “You.” Heather pointed. “Are both evil and right.”

  CeCe slipped a hand around Rachel’s waist. “It’s also why she fits right in.”

  Obviously, Heather had experienced no little amount of teasing about her “drunken wedding.” Her friends had been merciless . . . as was only right.

  At least they’d waited to tease her until after she and Clay had made up.