Page 9 of The Bad Husband

I’ve never seen anything more beautifully dangerous in my life.

He rests a hand on the doorframe, his tailored white dress shirt highlighting his flat abdomen and trimmed waist.

“You must be Lila Skye,” he says, his nasal voice curling around me like a snake.

“Yes. That would me. I arrived this afternoon. Henrietta must’ve told you about me. This is about my father’s will. Her late husband.”

He grunts.

“Hmm… Yeah. Henrietta.”

He sounds like he just remembered he had a wife.

“I haven’t seen her since yesterday morning,” he goes on. “She mentioned something about you coming here. You’re spending the summer here?” he asks, sort of, in the voice of someone who’s found an old mop in the storage room and doesn’t know where to put it.

“That’s the plan,” I say, not breathing.

I’m not sure whether he is seriously aware that my presence here is entirely dictated by a legal document.

So far, I can’t say I’m getting good vibes about these two people being together.

Although knowing her, this man seems more her type than my father was.

It could also be a matter of odds.

She picks men randomly.

He got a mousy math teacher. And then he went of for the, um… king of underground criminals?

The man looks like a villain. I could pick him out of a lineup.

Whether he goes for that look out of boredom, or the way he looks accurately reflects who he is, is something I can only reflect on later.

I don’t have the time to delve into this right now.

“All right,” he says, and since I’m experiencing unexpected short memory loss, I can’t tell whether he’s looked me up and down all this time, or whether he’s kept his eyes on me at all times.

The man is having me under hypnosis with his hooded haunting eyes. I bet they make women lose their heads over him.

I can’t look away. I can’t think straight. I can’t even figure out how ridiculous I look, barefoot, with my hair in disarray, my towel crooked, my hand nervously grabbing at it as I try to make it stay in place.

“Make yourself at home,” he says glacially before he peels his hand off the doorframe and starts to turn around. “The housekeeper brought you up to date,” he says, not looking at me, moving away.

“Yes, she did,” I say, inching closer to the door, waiting for him to be far enough from me so I can close it.

Forget about locking it.

He has the key.

“You’ll be okay. Just stick with the rules,” he says, again without glancing at me.

I stare at his broad shoulders as he takes the stairs down––he never intended to go to his room, or wherever I thought he was going––and soon after he steps out of my line of sight.

Finally, I can take a long breath and exhale.

“That went well,” I say quietly before I close the door and return to my room.

I should go to the closet and put some clothes on.