Page 50 of Arranged Control

But it still feels wrong for some reason.

“We had, you know—” I push my hands together like I’m miming sex.

“A deep conversation? A firm handshake? Oh, I know, you played charades!”

“No, we did not play charades.”

“Naked charades. And you were miming how to shake a martini.”

I cock my head in confusion. “Shake a martini?”

“You know—” She gestures with both hands, grinning wildly. “Up and down? Up and down? But instead of the martini shaker, you’re jerking his?—”

“Got it! Understood!” I cover my face with my hands and laugh hysterically.

Kira grins and keeps on shaking that martini until I beg her to stop. “You guys banged and you forgot about the note.”

“Now it feels like I can’t bring it up. Like if I do, he’ll know I hid it from him and he might get angry. He’s kind of a psycho about keeping me safe right now.”

“I noticed. It’s a little endearing.”

“Easy for you to say. You don’t live with the guy.”

“Seriously though, maybe you should mention it to him. If someone broke into your house, that’s a big deal.”

“He already thinks my apartment is basically a death trap. He’s trying to get me to move to his house in Brooklyn.”

She gasps and covers her mouth with both hands. “Brooklyn?! My god, the man is a total monster.”

“It’s a nice place,” I concede grudgingly.

“Are you gonna do it? I never imagined you’d ever leave the city. Manhattan without Alina is like… pizza without cheese.”

“Lots of people eat pizza without cheese.”

“Disgusting freaks,” she says, utterly deadpan. “They should be thrown in jail.”

“Maybe you’re right though. I don’t want to risk him overreacting and freaking out, but someonedidleave me a really creepy note.”

“Bizarre and creepy.”

“I should probably tell him.”

“Just mention the sex distraction. He’ll understand.”

I don’t feel as confident as she does about that. Seamus talks big about being flexible, but from what I’ve seen, that just means he does whatever the hell he wants without worrying too much about other people. That’s fine when you don’t have responsibilities, but he treats me like I’m precious luggage or something.

As the day wears on, I refrain from stress folding. By the time I’m heading back to my apartment, I’ve basically convinced myself that I have to tell him the truth. If I want him to be honest with me and treat me like an equal, I need to show him the same respect.

He’ll understand. Sex can be very diverting and I’m only human. I know he’ll lose his mind and insist we never step foot in my apartment again, but I’ll have to just convince him to see reason.

“Hello?” I call out when I get back to my place. It doesn’t look like he’s around, at least until I get into the living room and look out the window toward my balcony.

And there he is.

My husband’s stretched out on a chair. The sun’s hitting him, making his skin glow. He’s got his eyes closed.

And he’s wearing nothing but the smallest little bathing suit I’ve ever seen in my life.