She’d teased him for being old-fashioned. But truly, she was grateful. He was right, too. She needed the time to get to know him . . . her . . . them.
Out of the shower, Lauren blotted her hair and began blow-drying it. She was still drying it when a text came in on her phone.
Hey baby, hope you’ll have a good day. Xoxox
Lauren smiled. You too, she answered.
He texted right back. That was really romantic, darlin’. Thank you.
She grinned, typed, What should I have said, Steir?
She had to wait a moment for his answer. I want you and miss you. I am crazy about you. You are the hottest, sexiest man on earth and I can’t wait for you to return and make sweet love to me.
Lauren laughed, texted back. But that would not be true.
Which part? he asked.
The hottest, sexiest man on earth part. It should have read the hottest, sexiest man in the universe.
Damn girl, I’m rock hard right now.
Stier, not romantic.
It’s better if I’m soft?
Lauren spluttered, texted No! before putting down her phone. She dried her hair for another minute or two, smiling into the mirror, and caught her reflection.
Her lips were curved, her eyes crinkled, her entire face glowing. She looked happy.
She looked . . . she looked as if she was in love.
Because she was.
Lauren put down the blow-dryer. Sent one more text. Thank you for making me laugh again.
His reply was immediate. It’s just going to keep getting better.
I think I like you a lot, Steir.
I think I like you more.
You don’t know.
I know what I know.
She paused, chewed on her lip, before texting What do you know?
That we’re good together. You & me. It works.
And that, she thought, holding the phone in her hands, was the best text of all.
* * *
Boone was home from the three-day road trip, having arrived late the night before. Sarah woke up with his hands sliding slowly up her abdomen to cup her breasts, and she reached for him. They made love at two in the morning, and there was no urgency, no sound, just warmth, desire, love, skin.
When she fell back asleep, she was tucked into his arms, against his chest, and her last thought before sliding back to sleep was that she couldn’t love anyone more than she loved him.
It was late morning now, and Boone was downstairs in the family room, sprawled on the big leather sofa with Ella leaning against him in a pink princess costume, watching one of her Disney princess movies. So sweet, Sarah thought, carrying freshly laundered, folded towels back up the stairs to each of the bathrooms.
She set three in the kids’ bathroom and carried four to the master bath, shuddering as she exited from her “emerald” bathroom to her rose bedroom. Just a rental, she reminded herself, adjusting the duvet on the bed and then the pillows at the head.
Turning to leave, she spotted Boone’s iPad on the nightstand, open. She moved to close the cover, saw his e-mail program was open. He never left it open.
It was through reading his e-mail that she’d discovered he was cheating.
Sarah reached for the iPad, scanning his in-box, and then realized what she was doing.
She stopped. Looked up. Away.
Did she really want to do this?
Know this?
Did she want to open herself to whatever it’d be . . . good or bad?
Because what she discovered wouldn’t satisfy her. It wouldn’t be enough. It was never enough. She knew. She’d been here, in this position, before.
She used to patrol his e-mail, patrol his life.
It made her sick. Made her hate him.
She didn’t want to hate him.
And yet . . . it’d be nice to know there was nothing to worry about. Reassuring to know there was no one but her.
And yet . . . it wasn’t that simple. It was never that simple. If she didn’t find something in his in-box, she’d go to his sent box. And if she couldn’t find anything there, she’d check trash. She’d check drafts. She’d check downloads for photos. She’d check—snoop, dig—until she found something, anything, and then she’d be right back in hell again.
She knew, because this is what she did. It’s how she’d dealt with his affair. Spying. Monitoring. Policing.
But it never helped. It never resulted in anything good. She’d always find something, even if Boone hadn’t initiated contact. Girls would send photos of themselves. Fan mail. Sexy fan mail. And there was so much of it.
No, she didn’t need to climb back on the roller coaster. Didn’t want to doubt him. Hate him. Hate herself.
And his affair did make her hate herself because she loved him, needed him, more than she loved herself.
More than she loved her self-respect.
More than she loved her sanity.
Sarah swiftly set the iPad down and walked away.
But as she went downstairs, the tight panicky feeling had settled into her chest and the rest of her had gone cold.