Page 170 of Dirty Husband

Jasmine

At home, Dad's on the couch, reading one of those historical fiction books he adores. He sets it down as soon as he sees me.

He doesn't ask what happened. He just fills the electric kettle and motions for me to sit.

When I do, he finds a blanket, fixes a cup of chamomile, puts on a movie I used to watch with Mom.

When I try to protest, to insist I make him something, he shakes his head.

"Let me take care of you for once," he says. "You've been taking care of me for long enough."

Chapter Forty-Seven

Shepard

Key wakes me in the morning. She drops the empty bottle in my lap. "You're better than this."

"Thanks for the advice." It's too fucking bright in here.

She shakes her head. "You know, we can't help you if you insist on keeping the house empty."

I rise. Close the curtains. "You're not supposed to come into my office."

"You're not supposed to drink." She pulls the curtains. "You realize we all know why you request privacy."

"Yes."

"We all know about your… tastes."

"Do you?"

She just barely smiles. "What do you think happened when Lock dropped those young ladies at their apartments? They had questions. And answers."

That's what you get for being a gentleman. "Do you want something?"

"You have a guest arriving in a few hours."

"Tell them to leave."

She smileshell no. "You should clean up. And change your clothes. You're not presenting your best self."

"I'm not seeing anyone today."

"Two hours." She leaves the door open. "You're going to need both of them."

* * *

A showerand a change of clothes help. As do coffee and breakfast. But they're not enough.

My head is still pounding.

The room is still spinning.

The world is still dark and ugly.

There's only one thing offering a shred of relief—she doesn't know.

But it's ripped away as soon as Key answers the door. Because the guest isn't my brother or Ian or someone else on a misguided mission to talk me out of cold feet.