Page 5 of The Temptation of Truth

“It’s only been eighteen months,” I snap. “After he gets established at work, it will be different.”

“I’m not just talking about the eighteen months you’ve been married, Aurora, and you know it.”

Despite his even, calm tone, the words still make me flinch. I’m twenty-three years old, yet he still has the power to make me feel like a scolded child. I grit my teeth and push through the shame.

“With all due respect, I am an adult, and my decisions no longer require your input. I don’t need it or want it.”

The last time we had a disagreement like this was when Brady proposed, and it went much the same way. Uncle Wade expressed his disapproval, and I told him that his opinion didn’t matter; I was going to do what I wanted, regardless. This time, though, I hold back the reminder that he’sjustmy father’s brother and not my father. The memory of the hurt that flashed over his face is enough to have me biting my tongue as I brace myself for his retort.

Thankfully, before our conversation escalates into an argument, the timer on the stove goes off and releases me from the uncomfortably charged silence stretching between us. I crane my neck so I can look out the window, and sure enough, Brady’s car is pulling in.

“I’m going to have to let you go. I’m sorry for snapping at you. I know you’re only looking out for me.”

He sighs. “You don’t have to apologize for saying no, Aurora. I always want you to stand up for yourself, though I do wish you’d show the same tenacity when it comes to conversations with your husband.”

My jaw drops, and I lower my voice to a whisper as I hear the garage door open.

“I didn’t ask for your judgment.”

“It’s not judgment, Aurora.”

“Auri, what’s burning?” Brady’s voice calls from the mudroom, and it startles me into action.

“Sorry, Uncle Wade. Love you. Bye.”

I hang up, drop my phone to the counter, and rush to the oven. I’m pulling the lasagna out just as my husband steps into the kitchen. I set the dish on the stove and turn to him with a smile.

“Sorry. Some of the cheese dripped, but it’s not burnt,” I say before he can ask again, then I cross the floor and let him wrap me in a hug. “Welcome home.”

Brady presses a kiss to my head before pulling away.

“I’m sure it will be amazing. I’m going to go change.”

He leaves me to plate up our dinner while he changes out of his suit. Brady started at the tech startup company just before we got engaged, and he’s already been promoted twice. If he stays on this trajectory, he could be a junior partner in the next three years.

He comes back into the kitchen as I’m filling water glasses, and he tells me about his day as we eat. When he asks about my day, it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him about my phone call with Uncle Wade. I almost do, but for some reason, I stop myself.

I turned the job offer down. There’s no point in bringing it up, especially if it will increase the tension between the two most important men in my life. I miss the days when they got along. Back when Brady was just my friend and Uncle Wade was just my uncle. Back when things were easier. When the path forward was clearer, and I didn’t feel so...tethered.

“Are we in the window?”

I blink out of my thoughts and look back at Brady. “Hmm?”

“Are we in the window? You ovulate this weekend, right?”

“Oh. Right.” I take a sip of my water, then nod. “Yeah, we should be in the window.”

“Great.” He grins at me as he stands. “I’ll clear the table. You go get ready.”

I nod again, then head into our bedroom without a word.

I brush my teeth and strip out of my clothes, but instead of climbing into bed like usual, I go a little further. Just entertaining my uncle’s proposal has left me feeling guilty, like I’ve betrayed my husband in some way, and this is the least I can do to make up for it.

I cover my skin with scented lotion, tear the tags off the silk nightgown he bought me for my birthday, and then pull it overmy head. I swipe some red-tinted balm over my lips and give my cheeks a pinch to bring out a natural-looking blush. I fluff my hair, adjust my bangs, then survey myself in the mirror.

I look pretty—sexy, even—and it has my mouth curving into a genuine smile. I don’t feel sexy often, if ever. Most days, my hands and clothes are covered in dirt from being in the garden. Most nights, being intimate with Brady is a clinical responsibility. It’s like getting your car’s oil changed or visiting the gynecologist.Sexyisn’t useful or practical or necessary. But right now, I have to admit it feels good.

I glide my hands down my sides then back up, the smooth silk feeling sensual under my palms. My eyes flutter shut when my fingertips brush the underside of my breasts. My nipples harden, and I ghost my thumbs over the sensitive peaks.