I button my shirt. And call bullshit. “Easy to say when the deal isn’t actually on your desk, Kate.”
She doesn’t confirm or deny my observation, which means I’m on right on the money. She stands and wraps the blanket snugly around her body. Kate hiding her assets from my appreciative gaze is never a good sign. “We’re supposed to be at your sister’s in an hour for dinner. They’re expecting us.”
Her mouth is pursed, her cheeks are flushed, and there’s a fire in her eyes that . . . well . . . that gives me a renewed boner. Always has, always will.
My dick likes to argue. Sue him.
“Go without me. You can represent. Drink eggnog with my mother, pretend to listen to my old man talk about holidays past.”
Her voice rises. “I don’t want to represent! I want to spend the evening with my husband! There’s a time for work and a time for family, and tonight is supposed to be about family.”
“It is about family!” I counter, my voice doing a little raising of its own. “In the next several hours I’m going to make a shitload of money for our family.”
She shakes her head. “Oh, please. This has nothing to do with the money, Drew. Not for you.” Then a new thought occurs to her. “And what about James’s gifts? For weeks we’ve been pushing off putting his big presents together—the bike, the trampoline . . .”
Damn it. I forgot about those.
“I’ll see if Matthew can come over later and help you out. Until he does, after James is asleep, start to do it on your own.”
“If I’d known I was going to be alone, I would’ve gone home to see my mother.”
I step closer. “First of all, this is your home. Second, we talked about this—I’m not dragging James out to Bumfuck, Ohio, for Christmas. We’d be in line at airport security longer than we’d actually be at your mother’s!”
“We spent last Christmas with your side—”
“And if your side wanted to see us that badly, she could’ve hauled her ass to New York. She’s one person—our three beats her one. Majority rules, sweetheart.”
“Screw your ‘sweetheart’—I am so angry at you right now!”
I roll my eyes. “And we both know you’ll get over it.”
Kate’s mouth widens in a gasp. And a black boot comes hurtling at my head. She has the aim of a major-league closer, but in the last few years I’ve become a master ducker.
Smash.
Another lamp bites the dust.
“You’re an asshole!”
“A fact you were well aware of before you married me.” I shrug. “No take-backs.”
Kate growls.
So hot.
Then she stomps down the hall into our bedroom and slams the door behind her, rattling the picture frames on the walls.
And they say men are the violent ones.
I sigh. I just don’t have time to deal with this right now. Don’t look at me like that—I’m not trying to be a prick. I love Kate; I hate that she’s mad. But give me a break—it’s one day. Why does she—why do women everywhere—have to make such a big fucking deal over one day?
I put my shoes on, then walk down the hall and brace my hands on the frame of the bedroom door. And talk through it.
“Okay . . . so, I’m gonna head out.”
I wait. I listen.
Nothing.
“So that’s how you’re gonna play this? Not speaking to me? Real nice, Kate—very mature.”
Still nothing.
I admit—her cold shoulder bothers me. Not enough to change my plans, but enough for me to try to talk her out of the silent sulk one last time.
“You’re not even gonna kiss me good-bye? What if I get pushed in front of a subway train by a deranged homeless person? It could happen. And if it does, you’re going to feel awful.”
That does the trick. The bedroom door is yanked open.
Kate stands there, with one hand on her hip and a sugary sweet smile on her face. “And we both know I’ll get over it.”
Then she slams the door in my face.
chapter 2
Although I don’t believe I have any actual firsthand knowledge, it’s colder than a witch’s tit outside. Wind cuts through the city streets and the sky is a gloomy gray, hinting at a coming snowstorm.
On the corner, a block from my building, a scraggily faced man in layered, shabby clothes shouts about the apocalypse—the end of days—and how we all need to turn our lives around before time runs out. It’s not an uncommon occurrence; guys like him litter the city. But today it seems weirdly . . . foreboding.
I open the door to the building and am greeted by Sam, a security guard in his early twenties who typically helms the night shift.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Evans.”
“Same to you, Sam.” He swipes my ID badge and I ask, “They put you on Christmas Eve?”
He shrugs. “I volunteered. Hard to argue with time and a half. Plus it gives the fellas with families time to spend at home.”
Guilt pokes at me like the spring of worn-out couch. But I ignore it. “You don’t have any family?”