Page 4 of Duress (Birch Falls #3)

EVERLY

“ Y ou are so insanely talented, Ever. Don’t ever doubt that, okay?”

The memory of Dane’s rough fingers resting gently on my pulse point as he stared into my soul and told me I am talented plays on a loop in my mind.

The ease of our conversation. How free he was with his compliments.

How sincere. His gentle touch. His smell.

Sandalwood with a hint of something citrusy.

The way he looked at me like he saw me. Truly saw me.

The shrill whistle of the tea kettle pulls me from my reverie, startling me back into reality.

My cold, lonely, reality. Pulling the kettle from the heat, I pour it into my favorite mug, one of the first hand-thrown pieces I made.

It’s slightly lumpy, there’s a weird dip in the lip, and it wobbles just slightly, but it fits into my hands perfectly and it is a reminder of how far I’ve come with my art.

In my life. It’s not perfect, but it’s still useful. That’s how I like to think of myself .

Bryce got home last night after midnight.

I was lying in bed, pretending to be asleep, when he came into our bedroom.

I didn’t want to deal with his excuses, or his questions about Dane.

I also didn’t want to know if he smelled like her .

The real reason I suspect he didn’t come home until late last night.

I don’t have proof that he’s having an affair.

Only suspicion. But there have been signs.

More late nights working. The strange perfume on his dress shirts.

The mysterious calls he won’t take in front of me that he claims are work related.

Honestly, I don’t even care if he has an affair. I haven’t felt love for my husband in a very long time, but leaving isn’t an option. Not with our… history . I don’t think he loves me either. To him, I’m a trophy. A pretty, shiny trophy he displays when convenient and neglects most of the time.

“Damn, Ever. Wow. That’s good. Great. Fucking amazing. Really.”

My cheeks heat again as Dane’s forest green eyes flash in my mind. The way he honestly looked impressed by my painting made my heart skip a beat. Bryce hasn’t spared my art more than a passing glance in years, unless he has to pretend to be impressed by it in front of clients.

Taking my tea, I venture into my studio to begin my day.

I have a few pieces I need to finish glazing.

I used to do art therapy when I was fresh out of college, but Bryce didn’t like the idea of me working.

He said, “No wife of mine will ever need to work.” And so…

I don’t. I stay at home and work on my art.

Sometimes I sell a pi ece. Or have something on display at the local gallery.

But most of my work languishes in my studio.

I think he thought I would stay home and raise our children, but after ten years of marriage and trying, I’ve never gotten pregnant.

The doctors haven’t found an explanation for my infertility, and honestly, I consider it a blessing.

The idea of bringing a child into our loveless marriage turns my stomach.

I would never subject a child to the type of childhood I had growing up.

I wouldn’t want them to settle for the first pretty boy that shows them some kindness, tying them to a narcissist for the rest of their life.

My phone dings with an incoming text message just as I put my last piece into the kiln. Picking it up, I’m surprised to find a text notification from Dane staring me in the face. Why would he be texting me? I swipe my thumb across the lock screen, opening the message.

Dane

Game night tomorrow. 7 sharp. 615 Bloom St. Bring your A game. Hope you can make it. Serena is looking forward to meeting you.

I bite my lower lip, fighting the smile that is threatening to break free.

Why is an innocent text message from my brother-in-law, inviting me to game night, causing me to feel like a giddy teenager?

Maybe because his brother hasn’t shown any interest in me beyond what I can do for his public reputation or the favors I can help him get from my dad .

My mind conjures up what a game night with Dane and his friends would look like.

Would he be competitive? Carefree? Would those dimples of his make an appearance?

Would his friends welcome me? Friends. God.

What a novel concept. I had friends at one point, back in college.

Back before I let Bryce consume my whole life.

Now I have acquaintances. Fellow attorneys’ wives that meet for boozy lunches.

That talk about the tuition costs for their kids’ private schools, or the trips they take with their husbands, and gossip about how one of their husband’s got so-and-so off from serving time for silly charges like DUI or domestic violence.

Me

Thanks. I’ll see what I can do.

Sighing, I tuck my phone away after sending my noncommittal response.

It’s not like I can go. Bryce would throw a fit if I wasn’t home with dinner ready for him.

But I can’t quite bring myself to crush the fantasy I have building in my head of a normal night, with normal people, doing normal shit like playing board games and drinking cheap beer.

Instead, I pull out a canvas and throw myself into my art.

A portrait slowly takes form in front of me as I work.

A portrait of a masculine face featuring impossibly green eyes, sandy blond hair that’s fallen out of place and dangles across one piercing orb, and full, pouty lips quirked up in just a hint of a secret smile.

Hours later, I hear the front door open, and slam shut.

The noise startles me out of the hyperfocus I fell into while painting.

Jumping back with a gasp, my paintbrush makes an errant blue mark across the canvas.

Shit. I’ll have to fix that, but there’s no time right now.

I am shocked when I take in the portrait I was working on and realize it’s nearly complete.

Holy hell. It’s been years since I’ve gotten in the zone like that and knocked out an almost completed piece in a day.

The clock on the wall reads 8:07 p.m. Oh fuck, I really did lose track of time.

Bryce is going to be so pissed that dinner isn’t ready.

Thinking quickly, I rush out of the studio and head to our bedroom to change out of my paint spattered clothes and throw on a cute dress.

Maybe if I convince him to go out for a date night, he won’t be too grumpy about dinner not being ready.

I tug on a dark blue maxi dress that I know is one of his favorites.

It shows off an ample amount of cleavage that I hope will be distracting enough for him to go along with my plan.

After fixing my hair into something that resembles a romantic messy bun and swiping on some lipstick, I take in my appearance, hoping it doesn’t look like I just spent the day painting.

No errant paint colors are on my face—a minor miracle, normally I wind up covered in paint—and I look presentable.

Satisfied with my reflection, I head out of the bedroom to find Bryce .

Bryce is sitting at his desk in his study, whiskey tumbler in hand and a pensive look on his face.

My husband is a handsome man. I could never deny that, even if the passion and love between us has fizzled away.

A five o’clock shadow perpetually dusts his strong jaw.

His dark hair has just started to silver slightly at the temples, giving him a distinguished edge, while his tanned olive skin makes it look like he’s always just got back from vacation.

He takes so much after his father it’s hard to believe he and Dane are related.

The Mediterranean genes are strong on that side of his family.

His once warm brown eyes now burn with a hard intensity that will make anyone squirm under their gaze.

Useful in the courtroom, but I miss the sweetness I used to see in them when he would look at me.

Leaning against the door frame, I clear my throat before speaking, nervous to disrupt him. “Hey, you’re home…”

When he turns his attention to me, I feel myself wilting like a flower. His gaze is cold. Hard. He’s looking at me like someone he needs to cross examine in the witness chair, not his wife of twelve years.

“What’s for dinner?”

No ‘Hi honey, how are you? I missed you.’ Just straight to the point. I do my best not to let my disappointment show on my face, desperate not to start an argument.

“I was thinking we could go out tonight. It’s been so long since we’ve gone out on a date… I thought it might be good for us.” I stammer through my words, hoping he will go along with my idea .

His stare rakes over me, examining me with his lawyer’s eye for detail, seeing if I am selling him a line or if I’m telling the truth.

His eyes linger on my chest, and I feel my skin heat under his scrutiny.

Holding my breath, I wait for his answer.

I don’t want another tense night. I don’t want to fight.

I know our marriage doesn’t have any love in it anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to keep the peace.

If I’m stuck in this sham of a relationship, I want it to at least be somewhat amicable.

After a long, tense moment where my lungs begin to burn from the lack of oxygen, he finally nods.

The breath I had been holding whooshes out as I heave a sigh of relief.

He doesn’t say anything as he swallows the last of his bourbon before standing and walking toward me.

He stops when he reaches me, leaning over me, caging me in with his arms. The smokey, charred caramel scent of the alcohol he was drinking fills the space between us.

He lowers one hand, and traces a finger along my cleavage, causing a hitch in my breath and my pulse to spike.

The hunger in his eyes is unfamiliar. I haven’t seen him look at me like this in so long. Like he wants me. Needs me.

“You look good, Everly. I can’t wait to take this off of you later.

” My eyes flare at his compliment. It’s been so long since I’ve been noticed by him, I can’t help the tiny thrill of excitement it sends jolting through me.

Maybe…maybe our marriage isn’t dead after all.

Smiling, pleased that my plan has worked, I cup his jaw in my hand and lean forward to dust a kiss on his lips.

“Thanks, I wore it just for you.” He doesn’t kiss me back. Just takes the small peck I give him with no further show of emotion. Wordlessly he pulls away and heads toward the front of the house, and I bury my disappointment, trying not to let it show as I trail after him.