Page 25 of Her Wicked Husband (The Huxleys #2)

Bryce

Nine forty-five a.m.

By now, I should be showered, dressed in an I’m-gonna-fuck-you-up suit and meeting a client who’s more anxious than an abandoned chihuahua on the Serengeti.

Instead, I’m still in the suite, my body parked in the armchair near the bed, nursing my third iced Americano.

The chilly drink doesn’t do a thing to ease the suffocating knot in my chest.

My hair has long dried, slicked back and firm with the gel the concierge sent up earlier. A black Armani suit and a muted burgundy tie wrap around me like armor—not my favorite, but it’s a spare Amélie sent from the office. Of course, she included a note:

Your freshly pressed power suit has arrived. Along with it comes my hopes that you remembered your toothbrush (and your standards).

I took the liberty of having the inseam shortened by 2 inches. Figured it would help draw attention from your bleary eyes and undoubtedly rumpled hair from last night’s exploits .

Ever your servant’s servant, etc.

–Amélie

The suit, of course, fits perfectly.

Fiona hasn’t stirred. She’s on her stomach, face half buried in one of the fluffy pillows.

Hickeys dot her neck and shoulders. There are more on her chest and stomach.

I wiped her down last night when she finally passed out…

I think. It’s difficult to be sure—I remember very little of what happened after I called her.

Now that overheated blood has quit pooling in my dick and a fresh dose of caffeine has burned the rest of the drug out of my head, remorse kicks in.

Even though my memory of last night is fuzzy, there are fragments of feelings floating around in a kaleidoscopic way: I’d die without her; I wish she’d look at me the way she did before; a stupid craving that we could go back to the way things were, even though it can never be.

She’s changed—or rather, shown me her true colors.

People don’t change. They just eventually reveal what’s underneath.

We both know the score, and what we have right now isn’t about being nice to each other.

I’m just being responsible, making sure she’s okay after last night, I tell myself for the tenth time since six thirty, when I should’ve left the hotel to head to the office.

Part of me wants to prove I’m impervious—it isn’t too late to walk out—but I swat it aside.

Whatever ridiculous things I wanted last night weren’t me. It was the damn drug.

I can’t believe I ever thought you were nice . I have no clue what made Fiona say that. I probably did something to earn it.

I swallow more of the dark coffee to wash away the bitter taste in my mouth. No more Mr. Nice Guy. That’s what I’ve been striving for—and apparently achieved. Should be happy, but I’m restless.

My phone vibrates.

–Dad: Are you okay? Amélie says you’re sick today.

I inhale. He knows something’s up. I’ve never called in sick, never complained about the impact Mom’s kidnapping attempt left. I’ve become a master of faking wellness, both physical and mental, in front of my family. So when Amélie told him I’d called in sick, he undoubtedly had to check in.

–Me: I’m fine.

–Dad: Akiko wants to stop by.

–Me: I’m not home right now.

I love my stepmom. Although we have our differences, some of them cultural, she’s one of the sweetest and most patient people I know.

She’s from a Japanese zaibatsu family, ultra-wealthy, that owns a massive multinational conglomerate, and could’ve married anybody, not a divorced man with three highly traumatized boys in therapy.

She expresses her love with bento boxes so beautiful, it’s almost a crime to eat them. She tiptoes around our childhood trauma, always worried that she might say something to make things worse.

–Dad: What’s going on?

–Me: A long story. I’ll talk to you later.

There is a pause. Then:

–Dad: We WILL talk. Your grandma’s worried.

Hmm… Guess it won’t be one on one with Dad, but with all The Fogeys. If Grandma is worried, Aunt Jeremiah’s going to show up too. Not to provide emotional support—that isn’t Aunt Jeremiah’s forte—but to advise and strategize.

“Mmm…”

I glance over at the bed and put the phone away. Fiona finally stirs, slowly turning. Her hand stretches out, touches the empty spot next to her. Three grooves form between her eyebrows, then she slowly blinks her eyes open, looking at the ceiling.

“Hey, Siri,” she says, then stops, her scowl deepening. Her voice is hoarse and rough. She curses under her breath. “What time is it?”

“It’s ten seventeen a.m.”

She lets out a soft sigh. “Thank you.”

A corner of my mouth quirks up. But then, she’s always courteous…to others. Just not me. She wouldn’t have cheated on me if she’d thought I deserved any consideration.

“You’re welcome,” says the chirpy artificial voice.

Fiona lies motionless for a bit, then shifts in my direction. Her sleep-glazed eyes meet mine. Her eyelids flutter.

“Good morning,” I say quietly.

“Ack!” She jackknifes up, then bends over, her elbows digging into the soft duvet. “Ow, ow, ohh…”

Placing the coffee on the table next to me, I almost start to get up to check on her, then catch myself. But the question slips out anyway. “You okay?”

She gives me a hard stare. “What do you think? You aren’t allowed near me for the next three months.”

I feign innocence, relieved she isn’t going to talk about the inane desires I displayed because of the drug. Hopefully she assumed I was acting emotionally off due to being drunk or something. “What’s the problem?”

“ What’s the problem? ” she repeats incredulously. “Are you kidding? I’m sore all over.”

“Well, multiple orgasms can have that effect…”

“It’s not the multiple orgasms. It’s you ! My God, who does it all night— for real —without any break? Did you steal your dad’s Viagra or something?”

Murder flashes in her eyes, but when her cheeks are flushed from sleep and her neck and chest are mottled with the marks I left, she looks ridiculously cute. I laugh softly. “You can ask him.”

“Seriously?”

“No.” I laugh again at her expression. It reminds me a little of Gardy when she was a puppy and had a biscuit taken away by Grandma, who worried that she was getting too obese. That poor puppy couldn’t decide how she should react.

“I didn’t steal his Viagra, if he even has any. But I’ll ask for you. Tell him you’re curious.”

“Don’t you dare! It was just a rhetorical question.” Her eyes drop to my iced Americano. She lets out a longing sigh.

I pour her some hot coffee from a thermos room service sent up and dump some sugar in. “Here.”

She bites her lip.

“Oh for—! Stop acting like taking a cup of coffee is some kind of surrender. I don’t want to engage with a woman who hasn’t had her morning caffeine. ”

“Fine.” She takes the mug and takes a long sip. “Thank you.” Her eyes close. The tension drains from her face and shoulders. The blissful, unguarded expression reminds me of the peaceful mornings we had at Harvard.

As soon as the memory pops up, I push it back down. The two million wasn’t to relive the past; it was to get her out of my system. Reminiscing is for the weak and foolish. Life is about internalizing hard-learned lessons and moving on.

After a couple more sips, she turns to me. “So. You now have two hundred and ninety left.”

I snort. “Don’t even think about ripping me off. It’s two hundred and ninety-eight.”

“What we did last night counts as at least nine, not one.”

“Most definitely one . I was just getting my money’s worth.”

She gives me a long, hard stare. If she could turn the coffee mug into a knife and stab me with it, she would.

I don’t really intend to do the full three hundred, of course, just enough to give some closure to our past. There’s no way our relationship was so deep that I really need three hundred nights’ worth of sex to get over her.

I stand and straighten my jacket. “The suite’s yours for the day. Relax, use the hot tub and order room service. A limo will pick you up at six.”

Her expression sharpens with suspicion. “Where are we going?”

“Not we. You ’re going home.” As soon as I finish saying it, I realize that I’ve referred to my home as hers, too.

Her eyes sharpen—she noticed, too. A multitude of feelings fleet over her face: wistfulness, confusion, curiosity, nervousness. Her tongue flicks out, wetting her lips.

She’s going to bring up something I’m not ready to discuss. I pull back, withdrawing physically and emotionally. “I need to go.”

Before she can react, I walk out and step into the elevator. That was close . How could I let my guard down so easily? It was easy to be vulnerable around her before, but I should know better now.

My watch says it’s only eleven. I should probably head to the office and get some work done. That’s a better use of time than obsessing over my reaction to Fiona.

I text the concierge to send some Epsom salts for her as I stride across the lobby. It’s surprisingly busy, with guests arriving and bellhops carting suitcases back and forth. A huge banner says, Welcome to the Sunny SoCal Super-Signing! A convention crowd.

Across the lobby, a brown-haired woman sits in a cushy ivory armchair next to a small end table, flipping through some glossy fashion rag and sipping a cup of coffee. My heart hammers with shock as I zero in on her. I thought I’d never see her again.

An expertly tailored azure wrap dress fits her like it’s painted on her slim, toned body. Her skin is milky and ageless, without a single line on her beautifully sculpted face. The high cheekbones are the envy of all—I know, because she gave them to me.

She looks up and our eyes lock. Dense lashes frame the soulless blue. A wide smile stretches her crimson lips but fails to warm her expression.

My skin crawls.

Run! And if you can’t run, kill her!

Cold sweat slickens my back as I stay rooted to the spot. My fingers twitch, my pulse throbbing in my head. It feels like I’m eight again, small and vulnerable. My mind replays her twisted face as she held Ares and tried to reach for me and Josh.

“Come back here!” she shouted. “You’re mine! My sons!”

Helplessness slams into me. My breathing shallows. I’ve wondered so many times what I’d do if I ran into her again. I told one of the therapists that I’d grab her and shake her until she apologized for what she did, but the reality…

I loathe myself for my powerlessness, for being overwhelmed by the old panic.

She winks, raising her cup in a mocking salute.

The gesture jolts me out of my trance. I am not letting her fuck with me. Hands clenched, I start toward her. She rises from her seat. A churning gaggle of convention women and bellhops pass between us. When they’re gone, Mom has disappeared, too.

I stop and shove a hand through my hair. Did I imagine her? Is this a lingering side effect of the drug ?

I reach the armchair and look around the lobby carefully. No sign of Mom anywhere—and she would stand out. Zoe Dunkel isn’t the kind of woman you can overlook.

My heart rate starts to settle. Exhaling slowly, I shake my head. Might be the stress. One of my therapists said that mild hallucinations are actually common when under excessive strain. Being drugged to turn me into some sort of mindless fucking machine should definitely count.

I drop my eyes—

On the table before me is an elegant white cup with a bright red lipstick mark on the rim.