Fuck. Would I ever understand him?
I searched for him and found him sprawled facedown on the master bed, his head on my pillow and his clothes still on. His boots lay a few feet apart from each other at the end of the bed, as if he’d kicked them off in a rush, and his smartphone and wallet were tossed on the nightstand.
The phone was irresistible.
I picked it up, typed in angel as the password, and scrolled through it without shame. If he caught me doing it, I wouldn’t care. If he wasn’t going to give me answers, I had every right to search for them myself.
The last thing I expected to find were so many pictures of me in his photo album. There were dozens: some of us together taken by paparazzi, others that he’d taken with his phone when I was unaware. Candid shots that afforded me the opportunity to see myself through his eyes.
I stopped worrying. He loved me. Adored me. No man could take the pictures he did of me otherwise, with messy hair and no makeup, doing nothing more interesting than reading something or standing in front of an open refrigerator contemplating what I wanted. Pictures of me sleeping and eating and frowning in concentration … Boring, commonplace things.
His phone log showed mostly calls placed between him and Angus, Raúl, or Scott. There were voice mails from Corinne I refused to torture myself by listening to, but I could see he hadn’t answered her or called her in a while. There were calls between him and business associates—a couple with Arnoldo, and several with his attorneys.
And three calls exchanged between him and Deanna Johnson.
My gaze narrowed. Those ranged from several minutes long to a quarter of an hour.
I checked his text messages and found the one he’d sent to Angus when we were at the hospital.
I need her out of here.
Sinking into the armchair in the corner of the room, I stared at the message. Need, not want. For some reason, the word choice changed my perception of what happened. I still didn’t get it completely, but I didn’t feel quite so … pushed aside.
There were also texts between him and Ireland, which made me happy. I didn’t read them but could see that the last one had come in on Monday.
Returning the phone to its former spot, I watched the man I loved sink into the deep sleep of exhaustion. Sprawled as he was, dressed as he was, he looked his age. He carried so much responsibility and he made it look so effortless … so innately artless, that it was easy to forget he was as vulnerable to being overworked and stressed out as anyone.
It was my job as his wife to help him deal with it. But that was impossible for me to do if he shut me out. In saving me worry, he took more onto himself.
We’d be talking about that as soon as he caught some sleep.
I woke with a crick in my neck and the lingering sense that something was wrong. Moving gingerly so as not to pull something, I unfolded from my curled-up position in the armchair and noted that the dawn was well on its way. Pinkish-orange light was visible through the windows, and a quick glance at the bedside clock told me it was creeping into morning.
Gideon groaned and I stilled, dread sliding through me at the sound. It was a terrible noise, the sound of a creature wounded in both body and soul. A chill swept over me as he moaned again, everything in me reacting violently to his torment.
Rushing to the bed, I climbed on it, kneeling as I pushed at his shoulder. “Gideon. Wake up.”
He flinched away from me, curling around my pillow and squeezing it. His body jerked as a sob escaped him.
I spooned behind him, wrapping one arm around his waist. “Shh, baby,” I whispered. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”
I rocked him as he cried in his sleep, my tears wetting his shirt.
“WAKE up, angel mine,” Gideon murmured, his lips brushing over my jaw. “I need you.”