Page 5 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

“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 now belongs 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 as my wife?

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.

This woman barely lets herself want . I’ve watched her for weeks—always rushing, always working, always pushing herself past the point of exhaustion.

Her hair’s always scraped back like she doesn’t have time to bother.

Her clothes? Functional. Her meals? No doubt, she forgets to eat them.

She gives her all to everyone else and keeps nothing for herself.

And now, here she is, denying herself a small joy. A damn candle.

I clench my jaw. No.

She should have everything she desires. Everything. And I want to be the one to give it to her. I will be the one. I want to be the reason she stops second-guessing her own worth. The reason she reaches for beauty, for comfort, for pleasure—and takes it without apology.

The desire to care for her grips me with a ferocity that makes my hands curl into fists. I want to protect her. Pamper her. Possess her. I want to be the only man she ever leans on.

That’s it.

I’m done watching.

I’m done waiting.

I’m all in. No going back.

I wait until she’s moved on, then step up to the vendor’s table.

“That one.” I point to the candle she touched. I resist the urge to touch it, to absorb the lingering warmth from her fingers, her scent mixed in with that of the candle.

The vendor eyes me. “The India Ink?”

Of course, she’d choose something related to the written word. Her first stop on a rare day off was the bookshop, after all. I nod.

“Should I wrap it up?”

I glance down the row of stalls toward where Phoenix is sampling a tiny paper cup filled with juice. A strand of hair falls over her cheek. My fingers itch to walk over and tuck it behind her ear. Then, she stiffens and begins to turn in my direction.

On instinct, I step to the side and out of sight on the other side of the stall.

The stall owner arches an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as yes.” He wraps it up.

I pay for it and accept the paper bag from the vendor. Then follow Phe at a safe distance.

I watch as she stops to sample some cheese, exchanges words with a vendor selling the kinds of trinkets that women seem to prefer, then buys some blueberries before she heads for the exit.

She begins to retrace her steps home.

I follow her, ducking behind an SUV parked at the bottom of her street. There’s a VW van in front of it, so there’s no way she can spot me.

She veers onto the path leading from the sidewalk to her house. She pauses mid-step, and my heart seizes in my chest. She turns and glances down the street, right toward my van, and bam-bam-bam, my heart explodes back into action. My breath comes in short pants, like I’ve run for miles.

This is the moment. This is when it all changes.

This is when she walks over, when she follows the pull, she doesn’t even realize is guiding her. When she steps out of her world and into mine. When I stop being just a shadow at the edge of her life and become real to her.

I brace myself.

This is when she sees me. Really sees me. When I get to meet her gaze—those gorgeous hazel eyes that have haunted me for weeks—and say, I’m the one who’s been watching over you. I’m the one who knows you better than anyone else ever will.

A weight lifts off my chest, so massive, it makes me dizzy. I’m done hiding. Done watching from a distance. Done pretending I can keep this professional.

If she comes over and looks into my face, I'll be reborn.

And if she doesn’t? Fuck it. I’m done waiting . Because whether she’s ready or not—it’s time.

Time for me to step out of the dark. Time for her to finally see me. To know I’m not going anywhere.

Not now.

Not ever.

I wait… Wait… As she takes a step in my direction.