Page 80 of The Wrong Husband

"It’s got to be within the month; Arthur specified that,” he warns.

Which is true.“She just agreed to marry me. I’m not hustling her for a date."

“Bet she wants you to do just that.”

"Huh?" I lower my chin. "How would you know that?"

"By keeping my eyes and ears open? This way, I know what to avoid. Trust me, women want you to commit to a wedding date. Makes them feel secure or some such shit."

"You’ve given this much thought, huh?" I frown.

"Only so I can do the exact opposite.” He nods sagely. “And avoid any matrimonial traps."

"That’s only until Arthur gets to you."

"Oh, I’m going in with no illusions. Love’s a lie people tell themselves to feel less alone. I don’t believe in it—and I won’t pretend otherwise. I’ll choose someone who understands the rules: clear terms, no expectations. We do what needs to be done, the marriage gets consummated, and she stays in the background. I get to continue with my life. That’s how I keep control. That’s how no one gets hurt.”

"Sounds like a plan… Ifyouwant to screw up your life.”

He grimaces. "And how’s yours going so far, hmm? You ended up choosing someone under duress, and now you’re embroiled in an affair-de-coeur. That’s a surefire way to screw up your life."

I stare. "Having feelings for the woman you’re going to marry would be considered normal, by most."

“And mess up your head and complicate your life? No, thank you.” He sets his jaw. "I plan to steer clear of that malarkey. I’m never gonna fall in love, and I definitely will not have my emotions tied up with the woman I’m going to marry. My wife will be there purely to make Arthur happy. Which means, he’ll allow me access to my money. It’s a win for everyone."

Except for you.I’m not sure Brody understands the consequences of what he’s thinking of doing.

For someone who was courageous enough to lead successful missions as a Marine, he sure can be a coward when it comes to emotional matters. I fear, in trying to avoid feeling too deeply, he’s going to end up hurting himself. But that’s something he’s going to have to figure it out on his own.

"If you say so." I glance up and freeze. A second later, and I might have missed Fever leaving the hospital. I watch her disappear around the bend at the top of the road.

And this, after she told me she was called in to attend to an emergency.That doesn't seem like an emergency.

It’s official; I must have walked into an alternate reality. That’s the only explanation.

But seeing her very familiar back and swaying hips disappear around the corner tells me it’s not. I’m here, parked in a car, spying on her, and she left the hospital—after telling me she wouldn’t finish work until much later.

"I gotta go." I hang up, cutting off whatever he started to say, and ease the car forward.

I follow her at a distance, so as not to attract her attention. To my growing consternation she heads home.

I wait until she walks up the short garden path into her house. The door shuts behind her.

I park the car in the same parking spot I’d used to surveil her. I grip the wheel and watch the house. And watch, and watch. Around nine p.m. I message her:

Me:Are you home?

Fever:I am. Thank you for dropping me at the hospital.

Me:Hope you didn’t work too late?

She doesn’t reply.

I look up at the lights still shining in the windows on the upper level of the house. Anger squeezes my belly. My rib cage constricts. Why would she not tell me the truth? Maybe, the emergency resolved itself and she decided to come home? But clearly, that’s not what happened. For some reason, she chose not tell me the real reason she wanted to leave early. The more I think about it, the more the anger builds, until my muscles feel like they’re going to split my skin. My jaw hurts from grinding my teeth. My fingers hurt from my unyielding grip on the steering wheel. I release it, shake out my fingers, and draw in a few breaths. Then, I push the door open and step out.

The cool night air should serve as a balm on my fevered skin. Instead, it exaggerates the contrast with the tectonic plates which seem to be re-calibrating themselves in my chest. On wooden legs, I walk up the garden path.

I reach the doorway to the house and ring the bell. I can hear the electronic chimes from inside, then footsteps sound. The door opens, and she’s standing in the doorway.