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“Feeling this way about what?”
“Forget it.” She throws a hand in the air. “I’m surprised you showed up, after all. Were you scared I would’ve moved out?”
There she is.
I raise a brow. “Would you have?”
“No.” She stares out the window again. “But I would’ve moved all of your stuff to the garden and left it to soak in the rain.”
20
AVA
My attempts to avoid Eli fall apart three days later when I shove the door to his home office open.
I stand there in the entrance, keeping my distance.
During my hiding episodes whenever Eli is in the house, I realized that the main reason for my tormented thoughts and foolish moral code is because I believed the lie that is our marriage.
When, in reality, this is a charade that was agreed upon merely for convenience reasons.
We’re not in a relationship and, therefore, I shouldn’t feel guilty about my supposed cheating episode that I barely recall.
I went around asking the possible suspects at Gemma’s party, but I came up with nothing. Of course, the devil himself interrupted me before I could pop the routine question to V.
Gemma said she had no idea, so I wondered out loud if it could have been Ollie, because I clearly remember his interest from my last year at uni. Gemma mentioned that was impossible since he left for some tropical island a long time ago.
Which struck me as weird, because he gets red as a tomato in the sun and I never thought of him as the type who would indefinitely cut himself off from our gang in the UK.
But anyway, after my husband interrupted my conversation with V, I could’ve texted him. The real reason I haven’t is because a part of me doesn’t want to find out.
That part also believes that despite our lack of feelings for each other, our marriage is based on commitment. My husband is many things, but I’ve never witnessed him giving any other woman his attention. Even when they do everything possible to vie for it.
And that’s part of the reason for my crushing guilt.
Upon my intrusion, Eli looks up from the screen in front of him and I’m struck by how sinfully beautiful the man is.
Control oozes from his set lips and neutral expression down to the rolled cuffs of his shirt stretching around his muscular, veiny forearms.
Something is distinctively out of order, though—his eyes.
They take me in from top to bottom in a blur of heat and a whisper of danger. He observes my pink silk camisole, matching shorts, and fluffy slippers with undivided interest.
The man is a national security hazard trapped in taut muscles and lurking behind a gentleman’s façade.
Sometimes, I feel like I’m the only one who sees him unfiltered like this. Other times, I recall that I hold no importance in his life and quietly put myself back in my place.
His gaze slides back up to my face. I grow hot under his attention, but I refuse to appear bothered, so I stare back, unblinking.
“Does this mark the termination of throwing a tantrum?” he asks with veiled amusement.
“Throwing a tantrum?”
“Wasn’t that the case? You were clearly upset about my impromptu trip to the States and naturally couldn’t move on without throwing your own punches.”
He thinks I’m avoiding him because of that? Well, I suppose anything is better than him finding out the actual reason.
During this time, I’ve been obsessing and trying to find myself loopholes. I remember Anni mentioning we were exclusive. So I asked Cecily if that ‘no-other-people’ agreement was really in place.
