Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
So I try to make it perfect.
We talk lightly, about nothing in particular the way that couples who are comfortable do. She tells me about a particularly ornery potted olive tree she’s trying to coax olives from. As she enthuses about various plants in our solarium, my heart expands with love and then loosens with relaxation. This is exactly where I want to be. With Kayleigh, while she yaps away, unconscious of her own beauty, grace, and humor.
And then her phone, which I asked her to keep off the table, lights up with a text.
She scrambles to flip it face-down but not fast enough. I see the name in the notification, big as headlights: Evan Fine.
I let my fork hang in the air. I watch the color rise in her cheeks, the way her hand curls protectively over the phone, thumb white-knuckled.
She senses me watching and puts on a smile. “Sorry,” she says, “it’s probably just a spam call. They’re always trying to get me to refinance a mortgage.”
I say nothing. I set the fork down with surgical precision, the tines perfectly parallel to the rim of the plate. I let the silence fill the room, dense as a sheet of soundproof glass.
“What does he want?” My voice comes out low, careful. Not angry—yet.
Kayleigh glances at the phone, then at me. “Who?”
“Evan Fine.” I don’t bother softening it. “You know who I mean.”
She drops her gaze, cheeks flushed. “He’s just following up about the penthouse. He wants to see if you’re still interested in listing.”
“We’re going through Gerald,” I say. “At Stillwell Realtors. I told him that I don’t want a lackey handling this transaction, and Gerald agreed. He’s doing the work himself.” The muscles in my jaw twitch but I keep my hands on the table.
She nods. “I know, but—”
“But what?” The words land heavy, weighted with everything I’m not saying. My heart is heavy, the pit in my stomach almost at my feet. Yet Kayleigh continues with her charade.
She bites her lip. “It’s nothing. I told Evan that you’re handling things with Gerald, but I guess he’s an eager beaver, ready to please. Maybe he’s doing it for extra credit with Gerald, I don’t know.”
I exhale, slow. I look at her, really look: the pink flush on her cheekbones, the soft curve of her neck, the way her fingers pick at the napkin in her lap. I think about the other times in the past two weeks I’ve caught her texting after midnight, the weird nervous energy she brings home after Pilates, the mornings where she stares at her phone for too long and says it’s just her mom, or Stella.
I should leave it alone. I should act like I don’t care. But the thing in my chest won’t let me.
“Let me see the phone.” I say it soft, like a dare.
Kayleigh freezes. Her hand covers the device like a shield, thumb locked on the screen.
“I’d rather not,” she says, too quiet.
Something cold and electric fires through me.
I push back from the table, the chair scraping the marble, and stand. The air goes still. She watches me, wide-eyed, like she’s not sure whether to run or stay. I cross to her, slow and measured, and plant both hands on the back of her chair. I lean in until I can smell the floral shampoo in her hair.
“I’m not mad,” I say. “But I want to know the truth. Are you fucking him?”
She closes her eyes for a second. I see the tremor in her throat when she swallows.
“No of course not! You know I’m not, Trevor. I would rather die first.”
I stare at her flushed features and nod sharply. I believe her because Kayleigh is too innocent to share that beautiful body with multiple men simultaneously. Still, there are affairs of the heart.
“Don’t treat me like I’m a fucking idiot,” I grind out. “Tell me why you’re in touch with him still.”
Kayleigh looks down, averting her gaze. Then she looks up. “Evan keeps texting because—” she starts, then falters. “Well, because he thinks I’m being held here against my will.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded.
She laughs, but it’s a small, strangled thing. “He thinks you’re a monster. That I’m your captive.” She says it like it’s funny, but her face is pale.
My mind stutters. “Why the fuck would he think that?”
Kayleigh looks at the table, fingers twisting the napkin. “Because I messed up. When he came for the walk-through, I forgot to put away the handcuffs on the twin bed. You know, the ones from before that we never took down from the railing. The ones you—” Her voice cracks. “He saw them, and I didn’t realize it until later. He keeps texting, wanting to know if I’m safe. He thinks you’re some psycho who locked me up and won’t let me leave. Like there’s domestic violence.”