Page 9 of The Wrong Husband

I stop myself from groaning aloud, and speed-read the titles on the shelf in front of me.

Self-help books dominate the shelf:Dealing with Grief. How to Recover from Burnout. Coping with Trauma.

Why would she want to read these? Then again, given her line of work, it makes sense.

But right beside them—like a defiant splash of color—sitAround the World in Eighty DaysandFive Weeks in a Balloonby Jules Verne, alongsideBalloonatics: How I Learned to Love the Air and Let It Love Me Backby Richard E. Hamlin.

O-k-a-y, she may also have a thing for hot air balloons.

I can’t resist touching the spines of the books. Is it my imagination or does her warmth linger on them?

“I love the classics!” A woman’s high-pitched voice gushes behind me. “These are a great choice.”

“Jane Eyre is my favorite. I have a weakness for independent, resilient heroines wary of relying on powerful men.” Another voice—softer, more melodic—reaches me.

It’shervoice. I’ve never heard her speak. But I have no doubt that’s her. Like the tinkling of chimes in the breeze. There’s anunderlying sadness which is evocative, a haunting quality to her chuckle which makes me want to scoop her up in my arms, take her home, and make her laugh until whatever is bothering her fades away, leaving only sunshine and satisfaction in its wake.

“That’s the transaction gone through for you.” The shop assistant says brightly. Then I hear the crinkle of paper. That must be the books being handed over.

“Thank you so much. Say hi to Gio,” Phoenix tells the woman behind the counter. Her footsteps fade.

I pretend to peruse the books for a few minutes more. When the bell over the door tinkles, I know she’s left.

I spin around and make my way out. Just in time, as she’s standing in front of a shop window. She stares at the display for several minutes, then seems to tear herself away. She walks down the sidewalk and enters a coffee shop at the end of the street.

I amble along, coming to a stop in front of the same shop window. It’s Karma West Sovrano’s atelier. The label nowbelongs to her husband Michael, who’s a friend of the Davenports.

The display at the window is of a wedding dress. I don’t know shit about them, but it’s clear to me this one has been crafted with care. It’s a vision of lace and tulle, and so ethereal, it feels like it would fall apart if you blew on it. I have no doubt; it would look spectacular on her. Imagining her in this dress, with the veil shimmering from where it’s pinned to her hair…

Her, in a wedding dress?Why does that feel so right? Why does it feel like I’ve waited my entire life to stand here and picture this beautiful woman dressed in white walking down the aisle toward me? My breath whooshes out. It feels like I took a kick to the chest. Whoa.

Am I thinking of a future with her? Am I thinking of her asmywife?

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her step out of the coffee shop, a cup in her hand. I wait until she turns the corner, then head in her direction. I try to shut down the miasma of emotions the vision of her as my bride provokes in me. I draw in a breath. Another.

I draw on the techniques that help me ground myself on undercover missions, the same ones which helped me keep my composure in my life before that, as a biochemist working on life-changing discoveries in the laboratory. My sight clears. My world rights.

I turn the corner and find she’s entering the gates of a primary school up ahead. I read the temporary sign at the gates.

Primrose Hill Farmer’s Market

It runs on weekends. I walk in, take in the rows of stalls and the people meandering among them. Even in a crowd, she’s the one my eyes go to—like my mind’s been rewired for it. I keep a half-stall’s length behind her, blending into the slow current of shoppers drifting between crates of heirloom tomatoes and bunches of strawberries.

Taking sips from her cup, she meanders past stalls selling handmade clothes, trinkets and paintings. She tosses her cup into a recycling bin and pauses near a candle stall. I hang back behind a trellis of hanging herbs, half-shadowed beneath the canvas overhead.

She lifts a candle jar. She uncaps it, brings it close to her face, then closes her eyes.

The world stops moving.

She’s beautiful like that. Unaware. Open. Something in her face softens as she breathes it in. It’s as if the sharp edges inside her have dulled. The tension seems to flow out of her shoulders.

Making sure to keep out of her sight, I step close.

She sniffs the candle. “Smells like secondhand books.” She smiles at the vendor. “If I believed in indulgence… I’d get this.”

She places it back on the table, slow and reluctant. Like it hurts to let it go.

That tiny gesture—that split-second flash of longing—punches me straight in the gut.