“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, still a little stunned. “I mean, thank you, but it really wasn’t necessary.”
“Amy, I couldn’t, in good conscience, let you live off those damn noodles.” He turns off the stove and grabs the pot of noodles, taking them two feet to the sink and draining the water. “Do you mind grabbing plates?” he asks. “Dinner’s ready.”
Owen plates our meal—spaghetti with a homemade meat sauce—and we sit side by side at the counter while we talk about our day. As he goes on about his afternoon, I listen raptly, taking in every word and imagining being able to end every day like this. While I know I have feelings for him—feelings that seem to have grown over the last few days—I begin to wonder what kind of future we could have.
Will those closest to us understand?
Better yet, will it matter to either of us if they don’t?
12. Dirty Little Secret
Returning to work was inevitable. While I’d hoped to have the week off before being forced back into the fray, an emergency call from my assistant on Tuesday night changed that. She told me that one of my clients isn’t happy with the latest ad campaign I’d sent them last week before my impromptu trip to Portland.
Since I hadn’t packed anything to wear into the office when I left Seattle, I knew a stop at the condo couldn’t be avoided. The very thought of running into Gretchen makes my stomach twist with nausea and my blood run hot with rage. Our marriage has been troubled for years, and I had already been in talks with my lawyer—and brother-in-law—about getting started on the proceedings. It didn’t matter that Gretchen might wind up gaining half of my estate; it was a price I was willing to pay to get her out of my life.
We’d discussed separating at length, and Gretchen seemed completely on board…until I’d heard a rumor that she’d been cheating on me for the last year-and-a-half. In order to keep her from finding out, I’d used my personal account to hire a private investigator. Never in my life did I ever think I would be that guy—the guy who hires a PI to follow his wife around the city where she meets a few times a week with several different men for an hour or two at a time.
The pictures made me see red, and they sent Gretchen into a blind panic. She knew that because she’d been caught having an affair—or technically, several—that she wasn’t going to see a single cent of my money. This worried her because she’d gotten used to living a certain way: going to charity galas in expensive gowns and jewelry, going on week-long trips to Palm Springs with her girlfriends and spending hundreds—sometimes thousands—of dollars, and let’s not forget the new black Porsche she bought a few months back that’s in my name.
This is why she’s suddenly changed her tune about the divorce.
She’d tried to explain it away as the men just being old friends who were going through a rough time, but the pictures of her cozying up to them before getting into her car extinguished that argument before it had a chance to ignite.
When I pull my Lexus into its spot, my stomach lurches at the sight of Gretchen’s car in its place. While I try to tell myself that she’s probably left it here because it’s not her property, I know better than that. I know that confronting her can’t be avoided any longer. While seeing her won’t change my mind on any of it, I’d really rather avoid her until I’ve gotten the divorce papers drawn up—which I should be sure to do this afternoon if Stephen is available.
Steeling my resolve, I lock up the Lexus and head for the elevator. I can’t prolong the inevitable no matter how much I’d like to.
The elevator feels like it’s moving far too slowly, and the walk down the hall to my door feels even longer. I feel how I imagine a man headed for his execution feels, and when I finally reach my door, I pause, taking one more deep breath before opening it and tripping over several suitcases in my way.
“What the hell?” I bellow after clipping my shin on the pointed corner of one of the designer bags.
Gretchen rushes down the hall, her hands in her hair as if she’s in the middle of getting ready to head out for the day—to where, I have no idea; it’s not like she goes to work this early. She appears shocked to see me, though I’m not entirely sure why. Who else would she be expecting to be walking through the front door to my condo?
Her hands fall to her side, letting her outrageously expensive blonde hair cascade around her shoulders in loose waves, and she takes a few tentative steps toward me. “Owen,” she exhales softly. “You’re here.”