Your husband. The title stabs me in a way that I thought I was insusceptible to. I settle into the seat and force a smile. “Mr. Hinton, you should know that Mr. Dumont and I are separated, soon to be divorced, though I hope that he continues the payments on this account.”
He shakes his head slightly. “There shouldn’t be any future payments. Mr. Dumont made a deposit that should cover at least three years’ worth of treatment.”
My mouth drops open. “Three years?”
“Yes. It’s a little unorthodox, but should your father’s health improve to a level where he can leave, I assured him we would refund him the credit.”
I hate him for this. I hate him for keeping his promise, and giving me another reason to love him. My fear had been something to lean on, to hold against him in the lonely night when my heart is weak. I should be happy that he’s kept his promise. But I feel sick, disgusted with the weakness of my heart and the inability to block him from my mind.
His mouth on mine.
His body over me, hands upon me, the trail of his fingers across my skin.
His eyes when they soften and look at me like I am whole.
His voice when it grows gruff and intimate, when it says words that make me swoon.
I thank Mr. Hinton for his time, and stand, moving unsteadily down the hall toward the elevators.
NATHAN
She sits at the bathroom counter, sitting forward at the chair, her face close to the mirror, a makeup brush in hand. Her hair is down, in blonde ringlets that lay against her bare back.
He sits back against the counter and watches her, his arms crossed over his chest. It is so foreign to have her here. To smell her perfume, to watch the familiar curves of her body step from the shower, to hear the gasp of her breath when he pushes inside of her. He straightens, moving off the edge of the counter and toward her, stopping behind her, his hands threading through the strands of her hair. She flinches, moving away from him. “Stop, you’ll mess it up.”
He doesn’t stop, his fist closing on the bulk of it, giving a strong tug that pulls her chin upright, her eyes meeting his in the mirror. “Stand up.” he says quietly. “Turn around and sit on the counter.”
“What?” she laughs, pushing to her feet and untangling his hand from her hair. “Nathan, please. We’re going to be late for dinner.”
A memory, like so many that had attacked him this week, pushes forward. Candy, in this same spot, her back against the mirror, her fingers above her head and gripping at the mirror’s surface, her face filled with need, her voice begging for more. When she had come, her body had gripped him with a fierceness that had made his own release unstoppable.
“Dinner can wait.” His command, one that would have made Candy all but buck from arousal, only makes Cecile’s eyes narrow.
She pushes on his chest with the hand that once held his ring. “I’m not doing this with you Nathan. You know I’m not into that dominating shit you like.”
Ah yes. Another thing conveniently forgotten in her time away. Along with the memories of what a bitch she could be. His nostalgia had painted it as spirit. Two weeks of her had reminded him of why he used to work so much and play so little.
Two weeks, and she’d only recently explained her actions, saying that she’d run away out of boredom, that she hadn’t felt “emotionally close enough” to him. When he’d asked her if there had been anyone else, she had only laughed. “You can’t exactly play the celibate card,” she’d sneered, her eyes moving to a book of Candy’s that had been left behind. A book that had since disappeared, along with the closetful of clothes that Rosit Fenton had supplied. He hadn’t asked where the items had gone, assuming that Cecile would need to do an emotional cleansing of sorts.
Now, it seems that he is the one who needs a cleansing. He can’t so much as brush his teeth without thinking of Candy, every interaction with Cecile a constant comparison.
She moves to the closet, pushing aside hangers and examining gowns, her old items from before, all still waiting, just like him, this entire house a ridiculous shrine to a woman who feels like a stranger. What was it that he had loved about her? Where is the connection, the spark, the love that he remembers?
She yanks a dress free and steps into it, his eyes closing, the moment too intimate for the strangers they have become.
In a moment when he finally has everything he wants, it feels like he’s lost it all.
CHAPTER 55
Divorce, as it turns out, is a nasty bitch. Even with two parties willing to part ways, the dog and pony show that you perform is ridiculous. Counseling has been the biggest joke. Nathan and I both had to attend private sessions, the courts determining that two hours in the presence of a psychiatrist is enough to convince someone to change the course of their marriage’s fate. I don’t need a psychiatrist to convince me that I belong with Nathan. Unfortunately, that has already been decided by my stubborn mind.
Today is the required joint session—one with Dr. Bejanti, Nathan, and me. I’m sure Cecile wanted to attend, wanted to dig her manicured nails deep into Nathan’s arm and hiss possessively at me, pulling up her silicone-enhanced lips to reveal razor-sharp teeth.
I have threatened, bribed, and begged my soul to not be excited, to not look forward to seeing Nathan. It is unhealthy for me to continue to want him, to continue to need his touch, his stare, that flare in his eyes that tells me he wants to fuck now. But my heart doesn’t listen. It is pattering, it is quivering, it is jumping up and down in my chest and screaming with joy when a black Range Rover pulls up to the office and he steps out. He is effortlessly pulled together in a blue polo, worn jeans, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Casual Nathan. A side I haven’t often seen. A side that weighs down my pussy and causes a latent need inside of me to awaken.
His tan arms tug open the door, and suddenly he is before me, his mouth curving into a smile, his arms reaching out, pulling me to him for a hug. “Hey Candy,” he whispers, and I melt against him.
It’s the smell that gets me—the scent of his cologne that takes me right back to every good memory I have. Standing there, my face buried in his shirt, his arm around my waist … I can close my eyes and be back as his wife. Which is humorous, considering we are stepping into divorce counseling. The thought jolts me back to the present and I step back. “Hello Nathan.”
Oh my God, my voice actually behaved. Cool and confident, it doesn’t waver or squeak. I don’t sound like a besotted reject or a love-struck teen. I sound … casual. Unaffected. “Where’s Cecile?”
He watches me closely, unmoving, his blue eyes on mine. “The house,” he says finally, and there is something in his words, but I am not savvy enough to figure them out.
I nod and sit, glancing at my watch, the Tag Heuer that I couldn’t stop myself from putting on this morning.