Page 156 of The Bad Husband

We discuss matters over the phone and send legal documents through a messenger.

I rush to the door, push up onto my toes and peek out through the peephole.

“Who is it?” I ask loudly.

“It’s me,” a husky voice says, and my knees tremble.

I open the door and look for his eyes first.

Smiling faintly, Damon looks at me. He doesn’t wear a tie. His hands are tucked in his pockets.

His eyes are deeper than the ocean.

“Damon,” I murmur.

A gust of wind blows a few strands of hair over my face.

I brush them away with a tense hand, trying not to lose it.

“Happy Halloween,” he says, and I grin.

“Yes. Happy Halloween. Come on in,” I add, making room for him to step in.

The wooden floors creak under his firm steps.

“So, this is where you live?” he says, entering my apartment.

“You like it?” I ask, showing him to the sofa. “Can I get you anything?”

I look at him expectantly, realizing that we haven’t even hugged or kissed.

“No. I’m fine.”

He removes his hands from his pockets and undoes the only button of his jacket.

Carefully, he lowers himself on the sofa as if he doesn’t want to put a wrinkle in his pants.

He looks dreamily handsome, even more manly. More secretive. More powerful.

Things must’ve happened to him. All kinds of things.

The prospect of learning about those things makes me nervous.

This is the man who said he loved me.

And now, this is the man who checks the room like any other guest who entered it for the first time.

He shifts his focus to me.

“How are things with you?”

I crumble under his stare.

Afraid that I might choke on my emotions, I slide onto the sofa next to him and look down.

“Things are fine,” I say, staring at the empty glass of lemonade.

“How are things with you?” I push out.