Page 32

He looks to the driver and back to me. “Okay, Princess. I’ll find you when I’m done.” He withdraws from the car and taps the roof just as he closes the door. I’m left in the luxury sedan as we slide away from the curb.

“Miss?” The driver calls. “Where to?”

Pausing to consider my options, I realize I’m woefully unprepared to hike what’s required for Cathedral Lake or American Lake. I want to avoid the gondola. Hmm. “Can we drive around town for a while? I’ll let you know if we need to stop.”

“Sure thing, miss.”

Wandering the town from the cushy, warm back seat has its perks.

We’ve cruised the main touristy areas and the shops where people meander.

We’re at the corner of town when something catches my eye.

And that something is my husband walking with a polished blond woman into a house.

Quickly grabbing my phone, I snap a picture before the evidence is gone.

“Give me a minute. I’ll be right back.”

I have no clue why I say a thing to the driver.

Courtesy must be ingrained or something because who sees what I just did and has that on the forefront of their minds?

I double-time it down the street, standing in front of the home.

It’s quaint and charming with a gorgeous, wide front porch with a double swing and two other wide wooden chairs.

Mature landscaping makes it look homey and cozy. It’s everything our home is not.

I give it one last glance, memorizing the address, and stride back to the town car. I need my camera, some fresh air, and to avoid the urge to beat the door down, call the woman a name that should truly be directed at my husband, and throw things in a tantrum.

How could he? Everything he’s said. No. Everything I’ve been through, and he flies here for a woman. And has the audacity to bring me along?

“Let’s head to Maroon Bells,” I mention once I’m nestled in the back seat. I know it’s the wrong time, and I’m in the wrong gear, but my brain has reverted to the only thing it can. The need to be outside, the comfort of not being confined, finding a scene, and getting out of my head.

My fucked-up, not-safe-to-live-in head.

Two hours later, I’ve lost the edge of my anger, but settled more firmly into it. There is no resigned or defeated. The trees and snow caps have calmed me enough that I’m thinking clearly, but that clearly isn’t something anyone should cross.

I’ve shot macro and a couple of long landscapes that I’m sure will be crap. Thank God I don’t have to develop film for them.

When twigs crack on the path behind me, fear rises up. There’s a moment when I’m back on the ridge and I whirl, only to remember I’m on solid footing and not at risk of falling.

Christian emerges from the brush into the clearing where I am. His face softens as he makes it to my side, but the intensity is still there.

What parallel universe do I live in? He’s no longer in a suit, but in hiking clothes and a puffy jacket.

“You changed?” It’s asinine and accusatory but far more innocuous than what I wanted to start with.

“And you didn’t text. Or drop a pin.” He kisses my forehead, but his grip on my shoulders tells the real story. So does the edge in his voice. He’s pissed.

Well, that makes two of us.

“I could’ve dropped a pin when I was standing in front of the house on Valley Road. Would that have helped?”

“Not really.”

What the fuck?!

Did he just not really me when he got busted walking into some woman’s house? I’m stunned silent. My blood boils, but I have no words for the man in front of me.

I whip around, grab my gear, and head for the car with Christian hot on my heels. I hate that I have to be in the car with him… on a plane with him… breathing the same air as him.

I drop my bag at my feet and fume at the same time Christian slides into the other side of the car. “To the airport,” I say to the driver, not having any clue about when we’re supposed to go home or even what it takes to ready a private jet.

“To Fourteen Valley Road, please.”

“I know you didn’t just say that.” My words are a hiss.

He levels me with a gaze then grabs his phone, as if it holds the answers to the universe.

His anger isn’t well hidden. Mine is a hive of hornets lodged in my throat.

If I speak, I can’t say that it won’t end what we have.

Not that he didn’t end it already with a blonde with a five-hundred-dollar haircut.

I sit and stew in my anger. The hurt beginning to displace it, but I hold fast to the anger instead. I’m tired of being weak, so damned tired of being vulnerable.

Better to be irate than exposed.

“I trusted you,” I whisper-seethe as the town car glides to a stop in front of the house what feels like hours later. Crescent ridges mar my palms as I’ve apparently squeezed my nails deep into my flesh for the whole drive. Holding back this dam of emotion isn’t good for me. “How dare you?”

He exits the car and stalks around the trunk to my side. Like hell I’m going to be forced into this situation.

“Drive,” I bark to the man behind the wheel.

“I’m sorry, miss.”

My door is wrenched open, and Christian leans in, swiping my purse and camera bag from the floorboard and stepping aside. He extends a hand but retracts it. My glare must make him think better of it.

I don’t know the woman that hand touched. Hell, I apparently don’t know the man attached to it.

But I know myself. Whether my brain wants to cooperate or not, I know my mind and heart. And if he wants to play this game, the one where he introduces me to his mistress, the one where he shows me this has all been a lie, I’m willing to walk inside and Blow. It. The. Fuck. Up.

I step out and hold my head high, striding ahead of him to the door. The fire of rage is stoked to an inferno inside me.

I knock.And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

My ire is not helped when Christian saunters up next to me as if there’s nothing wrong, withdraws a key, and enters the house.

“What the fuck, Honey ?” The endearment on my lips is cutting. There is no sweetness to it.

“Well, Princess .” His tone mirrors mine. “I came home after my appointment to change and find you.”

“Home? How dare—” But I see it.

Oh shit.I see it.

It’s the antithesis of our Cherry Hills Village home. This is the bungalow—if I can call something this spendy a bungalow—that would be everything I would choose. Muted colors, but color nonetheless. Robin’s egg blue, rusty coral, butter yellow, lots of white and black.

And the walls are covered with photographs that feel the same.

Columbines.Windflowers. Larkspur and lavender.

Birds in summer aspens and snow on winter firs and spruces.

It’s light and airy, warm and homey.

If Cherry Hills is his; Aspen is mine.