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He lifted his eyes off of the screen and looked at her. “Work ran late. I caught a few hours of sleep in one of the suites.”
“With who?”
He closed the lid of the computer and stood, coming to stand before her. “What’s wrong? You don’t ever ask me about that.”
She shrugged, lifting the ceramic mug to her lips. He reached forward, carefully pulling it out of her hands.
“Is it the waitress?”
He shook his head. “I ended that. This is a new girl.”
She bit the edge of her bottom lip, a crack in her composure before she shot him a wry glare, one that fit their normal roles. “My husband, breaking hearts all over Vegas.”
He didn’t smile, didn’t respond to the playful tones of her barb. Something was wrong, a chink in their seamless arrangement. He knew what the issue was on his end—he was falling in love with Bell. But he didn’t know what was going on with her. And both of them having issues … that was a situation that needed to be resolved. He set down her cup. “Talk to me.”
Her eyes met his. “I could say the same to you. Is something wrong?”
He ran a hand over his face, smoothing the skin, and giving himself a moment to collect his thoughts. “I like her.” Nothing for you to worry about. He couldn’t voice that lie. Already, he could see the pool of trouble that Bell was going to cause.
“You. Like. Her.” Gwen said the words slowly, as if her mind was trying to translate them. “Like. That’s it?”
“Yes.”
Her gaze found his and he felt exposed in the heat of her stare, the way she examined every tic of his face and looked for more. But she didn’t know what deceit from him looked like. Not when he had never lied to her before, had never needed to, had never risked their marriage in this manner before.
“Don’t worry.” His words came out strong and powerful, protection wrapped in every syllable. He interrupted her examination with a kiss, leaning forward and pressing his lips against her forehead in a solid and firm movement.
It felt wrong and, for one of the first times in their marriage, he felt dirty.
* * *
GWEN
Her father sat across from her, his head down, focused on the rack of lamb falling victim to his knife. He cut it with quick and short precision, the blade flashing in the afternoon sun, each crunch of gristle and bone giving her a fresh shot of panic.
Every lunch with him was the same. A sixty-minute session of nerves and anxiety, lies and promises, threats and fulfillments. How had she ever survived twenty years under his roof? How had she emerged in one piece? What would she have done without Dario?
Three questions Gwen asked herself constantly. Three questions that never produced answers.
“Everything okay with you and Dario?”
She looked up from her wine to find him watching her, his lamb spared, his eyes pinned on her. She forced a smile. “Of course.”
But it wasn’t. For reasons unknown to her, their ground was shaky, the foundation cracked. Dario was failing to fix the issues, to right their heading. She thought of their conversation this morning, the way his voice had changed when he had brushed off his newest fuck. He had told her not to worry, had promised her that everything was fine. But it wasn’t. Something was off. And chances were, this girl was the reason.
“I can keep an eye on him, if you’d like.”
Her father’s offer was a red flag, the sort she’d heard all of her life, a casual suggestion that had always ended in disaster.
I’ll talk to him about your grade. Professor Vance, showing up in class with a cast on one arm, his eyes down, hands trembling when she approached his desk. The shiny and perfect A that had appeared on her report card, paired with a glowing recommendation letter for colleges, unrequested and filled with descriptions that sounded nothing like her.
She shouldn’t disrespect you like that. Her friend Charlotte, who made a mistake and kissed Gwen’s boyfriend. He’d broken their relationship off, Gwen had cried, and Charlotte had disappeared, her remains found nine months later, her bones picked clean by coyotes and vultures.
No date for prom? How can that be? The singer from the Backstreet Boys, who had shown up on their doorstep, a rose in hand, fear in his eyes. She had hoped for a kiss, but he’d practically sprinted away at the end of the night.
Her father was a man with unlimited means, yet violence was always the answer.
“I don’t want you to keep an eye on him.” She spoke emphatically, trying to get through his psychotic head, but her father’s lips tightened, some idea behind the gesture. She reached out and touched his hand in an attempt to catch his attention. “Dad. My marriage is fine. Dario is great. I don’t want you doing anything to mess that up.”
