Page 66 of The Wrong Husband

His smile curves—lazy, confident, dangerous. He jerks his chin toward the passenger seat. A silent command.

I obey.

Sliding into the car feels natural. Like slipping into something familiar but forbidden.

“Good morning.” He nods toward the drink in the cupholder.

I pick it up and take a slow sip, savoring the warm, spiced sweetness. No surprise—another dirty chai latte, just how I like it.

“Thank you.” I lift it in a small salute. “You’re looking pleased with yourself.”

His grin deepens. “I have a surprise for you.”

24

Connor

“We’re going shoe shopping?” She wrinkles her forehead.

“Don’t misunderstand me. I have a particular affection for those borrowed clogs you wear to work, since they're the reason you fell into my arms the first time we met. But given the number of hours you are on your feet, I’ll feel more comfortable if you're wearing shoes that don't cause you to lose your footing and hurt yourself.”

“Oh.” She considers my words, then nods. “Okay.”

Huh, she’s being unusually compliant. “You’re not fighting me on this?”

“Why should I? I do need new shoes; I just haven’t had the time to buy them.”

This woman never ceases to surprise me.

The shop I’ve picked is in Marylebone. Not one of those soulless chain stores. This one specializes in custom-fit, orthotic-friendly footwear—stylish but functional. I’ve already had them pull options based on Phoenix’s height and weight—both of which I estimated—and job demands. Of course, she doesn’t know that yet.

As we arrive, I open the glass door and step aside, so she can walk in first.

She takes in the shoes on display. “You really planned this, huh?”

“I don’t do improvisation. Not where you’re concerned.”

She swivels her head in my direction. The look in her eyes is pleased, and surprised, and something else—something soft.

I do believe I’m wearing her down.

I nod toward the rows of shoe-lined shelves. There’s no loud music. No gimmicky posters. Just comfort, and quiet, and the scent of suede and beeswax polish. The owner, Amaya, gives me a nod. She already knows who we’re here for.

“You must be Phoenix,” she says warmly.

Phoenix throws me a look. “You briefed her?”

“Of course, I did.”

She presses her lips together—maybe to hold back a gasp of surprise? Maybe to stop herself from saying what she’s thinking. Her pulse flutters at her throat, though. That little giveaway I’ve come to recognize. She likes that I see her. That I pay attention to her needs.

Amaya brings out three boxes.

“Specialized shoes with neutral soles. Cushioned arches. Reinforced heel cups. And handmade in Italy.” She beams.

Phoenix sits gingerly on the lounge chair, her eyes wary.

I wave Amaya away, then go down on my knee in front of Phe. I coax her to place her foot on my thigh.