Page 44 of Wait for Him

Stand down.

Don't get happy, motherfucker.

“I'll get you home, Rosalie.” I pull a breath through my teeth and internally kick the selfless idiot I become every single time this woman gets within arm's reach. “But the other part's a no-go, sweetheart.”

Her expression falls for half a second before she lets out a dramatic sigh. “I'm sorry. I was just kidding around, Jackson.” She shrugs and reaches for her wine. “I know you're a faithful husband.”

Goddamn, that word.

One fucking word and every restraint I've got snaps back into place.

Husband.

I tense before I can stop myself, because if only she fucking knew.

If Rose knew the first thing about the marriage she just used to let me off the hook, she'd never say it in that easy, absolving voice. My marriage to Elyse wasn't born from anything as clean as love. It wasn't even really born from choice.

But I don't tell her that.

I never tell anyone that.

The truth belongs to exactly three people: me, my wife, and the evil son of a bitch who arranged us like a merger. Franklyn Delacroix, the most senior member of the Sullivan board and the closest thing I've got to an owner.

So I do what I always do.

I nod and let Rose believe I'm simply a good man being good.

“Bennet asked why I call you Jackson,” she says after another sip. “Why you called me today instead of him.”

She tips her head slowly, and I'm starting to realize we're approaching the portion of the evening where her mouth is no longer consulting her brain before releasing information. Her words are beginning to soften at the edges, her eyes heavy-lidded, and that's enough for me.

I lift two fingers toward the bartender for the check.

“Yeah?” I keep my voice light. “What'd you tell him?”

“I didn't tell him anything.”

“Probably wise.”

“Mmm.”

She runs one finger slowly around the rim of her glass.

“I didn't tell him about what happened between us when you were twenty.”

My hand stops.

For fuck's sake.

“Rose.”

“Or how you were such a good boy for me that night.”

Her voice drops into a very specific deep tone that I've spent a very long time pretending that I don't remember.

My dick, it seems, has not participated in the pretending.

Every muscle below my waist tightens as the memory comes back with humiliating energy, and I shift in my chair while she watches me do it.