Page 33 of Infidelity Rules

My stomach drops at the “sweetheart” and the “you too.” That was clearly an “I love you too,” moment.

Huh.

I keep doodling. Do NOT bring up the wife, Quinn. Whatever you say, whatever you do next, do NOT bring up Juliette . Just. Don’t.

“Now then,” says Marcus, striding back into the room, his blue eyes twinkling. “Where were we?”

He’s not going to say anything? Really? I suppose this shouldn’t surprise me. He hasn’t mentioned his wife since the day he told me he was married and we irked that bearded barista. And practically violated a tree in the park.

But it’s out there. Hanging thick in the air like bad perfume.

Juliette.

“Hey,” he says softly, curling up next to me on the bed and putting my head on his chest. He gently starts playing with my hair.

I will myself to stay quiet. The ball is so in his court.

“Well, well, well,” he says, picking up the hotel stationary. “You, my love, are a very talented poet.”

“Oh shut up,” I say, trying to grab the pad from him as he reads the absurd piece aloud.

Wait. Did he just say love?

“… Your eyes are still blue. Cheese,” reads Marcus with a flourish, laughing and kissing the top of my head.

He called me his love.

His. Love. He’s written it, yes, but he’s never actually said it.

Tears spring to my eyes as my heart soars. There is no other way to describe it.

“You are certifiably nuts,” says Marcus. “And damn it woman, I love you.”

.....

Forty-eight hours later, I’m standing at my front door, saying goodbye to Marcus. His “trip” complete, he must head home to The Wife. I’ve stopped thinking of her as Juliette. It’s just easier.

We cannot stop kissing. We cannot stop touching. Each time we separate he pulls me back to him for one last embrace. Which is stupid because I’ll see him next week.

We are love-struck jackasses.

“Never, ever stop writing poetry.” He smiles and crushes me to his chest.

“You are never going to let me forget that, are you?” I ask, relishing my last few moments with him.

“Not on your life,” he whispers, leaning back to take my face in his hands. “Quinn. My Quinn. I love you,” he says, his blue eyes soft. “I love you like no other.”

“Me too. I love you too.”

.....

I finally walk into my apartment, drop my bag on the floor and look around.

Funny how I feel totally different — somehow lighter and at peace and well, beautiful.

Even my apartment looks brighter and feels airier, yet everything is exactly the same.

But my world has changed. Love, I assume?

It’s not what I wanted, but it’s here and I may as well face it.

I am in love with Marcus. Shit, shit, shit .

How did I let this happen? Do I enjoy the ride and brace for the inevitable crash? Or run?

Now.

I don’t know what to do with myself, so I text Alex.

Me: Hey little brother, I’m in love!

Alex: Oh boy. Marcus?

Me: Yes, Marcus! Who else?

Alex: So now what?

Me: Not sure exactly. But we had a good talk.

Alex: And?????

Me: Too much for text.

Alex: Is he leaving his wife?

Me: And there’s the reporter in you …

Alex: Well?

Me: I’ll tell you in person soon. I promise.

Alex: Okay. I’m happy for you big sister. It’s been a long time coming. But you had better have a plan. For your own sanity.

Yikes. That’s a tall order, and one I will likely ignore.

Marcus and I did have a good talk, but I really don’t know what lies ahead for us.

And, quite frankly, neither does he. We spent the last two days in bed, snuggling, talking for hours and falling madly in love.

All of which can gum up the wheels of logic, much like kindergarten paste in curly hair.

Marcus did finally address his wife though, which felt like a big step for us. I’m just not sure in which direction.

Here is what I learned about said wife:

They married young. Too young, according to Marcus.

She teaches piano and illustrates children’s books (geez, really?).

They have sex just a few times a year, on special occasions.

She checked out of the marriage years ago, hence the limited anniversary and birthday sex.

She is content with the status quo.

I am his second affair.

He never loved the first woman.

And he no longer loves his wife.

That’s about the extent of my knowledge.

Marcus didn’t expound much nor did he mention divorce and I did not pry.

I wouldn’t dream of asking him to leave his wife.

I’m in love, yes, but I feel safest with Marcus married.

I don’t want anything to change. When I’m with him, it’s easy to pretend I’m not scared out of my mind.

It’s easy to strangle that persistent whisper in my head — what if, in the end, he’s like Liam?

So for the moment, I still have a very married boyfriend. And there is no simple answer here. The simple truth, however, is that Marcus and I are in love. And we want to spend as much time as we can together.

But, for better or worse, we are both excellent at ignoring Juliette.