Page 11 of Six Month Wife

And if not? Well, at least you'll have solved a fascinating puzzle, and you'll be richer for it in every possible way. Either way, you'll have a story worth telling and plenty of resources to cushion any bumps along the road.

Some people solve puzzles on paper. I want you to solve one with your whole life.

You were always clever, Parker. I trust you’ll figure it out.

Make it count.

—R

I let out a long breath, tapping my fingers on my laptop.

Six hundred million dollars. A six-month marriage clause. Roger, even from the grave, is treating life like a puzzle—and dragging me along for the ride.

I’m overwhelmed. Panicked. And weirdly fine.

Or, maybe I’m just numb. I’m somewhere between a high and a full-blown existential spiral.

I move to the fridge and pull out a container of yogurt, eating on autopilot. My brain won’t stop spinning. Questions on top of questions with no real answers.

That’s when I spot it. The realtor must’ve left a magazine, and that’s exactly what I need to quiet the chatter in my head right now.

Palm Beach Societyscrolls across the top in bright pink block letters.

It’s the kind of thing I’d usually ignore. But right now, my brain’s begging for anything else to latch onto. Something dumb. Shiny. Easy.

I flip it open mid-bite.

And there she is.

Full-page. Glossy photo. Holding a bottle of green juice like it’s a trophy. She has that same cocky smirk from the ER. That same mouth from Miami.

Adair.

The one-night stand who didn’t remember me.

The same girl who once rode me like a storm was coming now, apparently, sells pressed greens five minutes from my front door.

Sheliveshere.

I stare at the article like it might explain something. Like there’s some logic to the fact that, out of all the people in this city, she’s the one who keeps showing up.

I don’t know how to solve Roger’s game yet. But I do know this: I need a diversion.

And Ms. Adair, with her sharp mouth and selective memory, is exactly the kind I should avoid.

Which means, naturally, I have to stop by this Citrine. Just to see.

3

Adair

The bellabove the café door chimes, and I glance up from the register.

And then I freeze.

No. Freaking. Way.

Dr. Matthews, from the ER, is standing in Citrine. His unexpected presence is both jarring and exciting at the same time.