Page 53 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

“Ginger was adamant that this can’t wait.” The man currently occupying my doorstep shakes his head. “As the CEO, Mr. DeVille is the only one who can sign this document.”

I take a deep breath, trying to resist the overwhelming urge to punch this guy in the head. “He can’t sign anything without reading it, and he’s in no shape to do that right now.”

Arturo’s temperature has remained below the danger zone for the past two days, hovering just below one hundred.

Worried that his fever might return, I’ve been sneaking into his room when he’s asleep and using a noncontact thermometer to take regular readings.

This illness has really wiped him out. That man has been sleeping a lot!

“These need to be signed right away, Mrs. DeVille. It’s the don’s orders. Something about tomorrow being the deadline.”

“Fine. Come back at seven.” I snatch the envelope out of his hands and slam the door in his face.

“‘ It’s the don’s orders ,’” I mimic as I trudge to the living room and drop down onto the couch cushions.

When Ilaria came by to check up on Arturo yesterday, she reiterated that light, home-cooked meals and plenty of warm fluids are crucial for a speedy recovery, along with plenty of bed rest. I sure appreciate her care, but I wanted to scream, I’m trying, damn it!

I’ve spent hours watching videos on how to cook all kinds of comfort soups and quick one-pot meals.

Between waking up every two hours to take Arturo’s temperature, racing to finish proofing Sienna’s latest manuscript that’s due for submission tomorrow, and having a minor freakout every time I’m forced to approach the gas stove, I’m dead on my feet.

I’m also spiraling a little. With paranoia about the gas and a fire setting in, I called Greta and ended up spilling everything about what happened to Dina and how fucked up I’ve been since then.

She helped talk me off the ledge and, after, gave me a few tips on the soup I was attempting.

All that, somehow, left me feeling even more drained.

Now, though, I need to add reviewing this contract to my plate since Satan is obviously still out of commission and will likely stay that way for at least another day or two.

“I should just go bang on his door and throw it at him,” I mutter as I leaf through a couple of trees’ worth of paper. How many pages is this stupid contract? A fucking hundred?

“There’s no way I’m spending the whole afternoon reading this crap for him.

” Pages and pages of general provisions outlining administrative and legal clauses, then schedule after schedule with specifics on the scope of services, timelines, costs, and finally, payment terms. A supply and purchase agreement.

I reviewed a few of these while working for Drago, and with all their fine print, they tend to be a royal pain in the ass.

“Why should I care if he’s too sick to work? This is his job after all. He should be the one dealing with all this brain-numbing mumbo jumbo.” I grab a pen off the coffee table and settle into a more comfortable position. “Yup, I’m gonna take this upstairs for him right away.”

With my ballpoint skimming under the Rules for Interpretation section, I start to read:

If there is any inconsistency, ambiguity, or conflict between the wording of any Agreement documents listed below, the wording of the document that first appears on the list has priority over the wording of any subsequently listed document.

1) The articles of the Supply and Purchase Agreement…

Steam trails me as I leave the bathroom after my scorchingly hot shower.

I haven’t done much other than sleep for the past two days, but I still feel like I’ve pulled a few all-nighters in a row, and I look like death warmed over.

At least that dreadful sore throat is gone, and I’ve mostly stopped coughing. Thank fuck.

I shuffle toward the bed, wanting nothing more than to collapse back onto the pillowy mattress, but knowing I need to make a few phone calls first. As I get closer, I spot a bowl of still-steaming soup on my nightstand.

Hmm. Greta has been leaving my meals on the writing desk in the lounge area of my bedroom.

Although cozy and surrounded by massive windows, the space happens to be in the far corner of the room.

I figured she simply wasn’t willing to risk getting sick, so she’s been keeping her distance until now.

Next to the soup is a manila envelope. I ease onto the edge of the bed and pick up the package.

Inside is a renewal contract from one of Gateway’s suppliers, and it needs to be signed tomorrow, at the latest. I completely forgot about the blasted thing.

Narrowing my eyes, I try to decipher the chicken scratch packed into the document’s margins.

When did Ginger’s handwriting get so terrible?

I’m assuming it was she who sent it over and left these notes.

As I try to concentrate on the pertinent sections, the pressure in my temples intensifies.

Thank God Ginger has already identified the critical issues and added comments outlining the revisions that will need to be made.

If I ignore her terrible handwriting, the notations she’s left are rather good.

Who knew Ajello’s assistant had such a sharp eye for detail?

Usually, it would take me an hour just to review the six pages of the pricing schedule, but with Ginger’s notes, I’m able to finish my assessment in less than fifteen minutes, making only a few minor alterations to her proposed changes.

Considering the time I’ve saved and the headaches I’ve been spared, I’m already planning to ask her to review all our contracts in the future.

Grabbing my phone off the charger, I notice more than a dozen missed calls and a shit ton of texts.

I knew I was out hard, but so hard I didn’t even hear it ringing?

I swipe the screen down and notice that “Do Not Disturb” mode is on.

Again. I never silence my phone, but for the past couple of days, each time I’ve woken up from a heavy slumber, I’ve found the setting active.

Hell, I remember turning it off this morning!

I shove the envelope with the contract under my arm and dial my lawyer as I head downstairs.

“Atkinson, I’ll have Tony drop off the contract with you. It needs some work,” I rasp as I lumber off the final step. “Make sure they accept the proposed changes and send me the revised version for signing tomorrow morning.”

“Sure,” he replies. “If the changes are minor, it shouldn’t be a problem at all. Oh, I tried to reach you earlier today about the zoning permits for the…”

He keeps talking, but I’ve lost the ability to form a coherent thought, all because my full focus has been captured by the sight before me.

Nestled on the couch, with her locks tangled around her head, my wife is sound asleep.

The too-big T-shirt she’s wearing has bunched above her waist, leaving her mile-long legs, the silky smooth skin of her slender hips, and a pair of black lace panties in plain view.

The corner of a thick paperback with a pink cover is peeking out from beneath her cheek, partially hidden by her mussed curls.

“I’ll call you back,” I whisper into the phone and quickly cut the line. Then, just in case, I turn off the ringer.

As silently as possible, I cross the living room and crouch next to the couch, watching my little hellion sleep. Some of her dark tresses have fallen across her eyes and over the edge of the sofa, the ends reaching the floor.

I’ve always been attracted to women sporting short haircuts.

Somehow, long hairstyles seemed less sophisticated to me.

Now, though, the notion of my wife cutting that beautiful mane of hers makes me absolutely livid.

If she knew that, she’d probably be in the hairdresser’s chair within an hour, cutting her long locks off.

Unthinkable! But if she ever gets the idea, I’ll burn every hair salon in the city to the ground.

Two days. Two whole days I haven’t set my eyes on her.

Well… that’s not entirely true. I woke up around three last night.

And the night before. As if prodded awake by some demented internal alarm clock, I stared at the ceiling and fought the pull to go check on her.

Something I’ve done almost every night since bringing Tara to my home.

I lay in bed, trying to rationalize my need to make sure the woman who has been very clear about not giving a fuck about me was safe and comfortable.

Nothing sensible popped into my mind. I was just being a dumbass.

Over a woman. My wife. Still, I snuck into her room to make certain she hadn’t thrown off her duvet as she tends to do in her sleep.

I was simply being courteous. Unlike her.

She hasn’t bothered to look in on me these past two days.

Tossing the envelope with the contract on the floor, I carefully slide my arms under Tara’s body and lift her.

Greta must have already gone home, since I don’t hear any other sounds in the house.

It’s silent except for my muffled steps as I carry my wife upstairs.

She stirs, just a little, as I enter her room, and lets out a soft sigh before nudging her nose into the crook of my neck.

My steps falter. I stop, freezing in place.

Her bed is mere feet away, but I can’t make myself close that distance.

I want this feeling. Having her this close, snuggled into me.

I want it to last longer. Forever even. I stand, rooted in place, cradling my unwanted wife in my arms for what seems like an hour.

When I finally make myself lay her down on the bed, instantaneously, a sense of profound loss hits me.

“Little witch,” I whisper into the darkness as I pull the covers over her body.

There’s no other explanation; she must be a sorceress.

Which would explain all the damn black cats!

And only some sort of dark magic could have put a spell on me.

A spell I’m powerless to escape. A spell I’m too feeble to flee.

Then again, when did I start to believe in magic?