She couldn’t leave the house for a week, even had to avoid Just Jan. Her swollen, bruised nose took forever to heal. There was so much blood, so many apologies. The fallout haunted them forever. It seemed fitting that she would ruin the marble she so loved with her own blood.

It had been a stupid mistake to offer like that. Everyone makes them. She hadn’t thought. And she’d paid the price.

The story should have ended right there. With the black eye and the broken nose and the baby screaming from his withy basket because Just Jan had the day off.

But that was where the story really began.

Café au Lait in Bed

CAFÉ AU LAIT IN BED

Now

Sutton opened her eyes. The view was startling—to the left, the man beside her, and to her right, the Tour framed like a picture postcard in the window.

You wanted a new life. You’ve got it. You’ve started it. With a motherfucking bang, no less, sister.

Her fall from grace hadn’t taken long. Sutton—Justine—was simultaneously furious with herself and wallowing in the glory of sex with a new person, in a strange bed, in a strange but all too familiar city.

Constantine felt her stir and put a hand possessively on her hip. She stopped moving and he fell back asleep.

She shut her eyes, too, blocking out the world, and thought about Ethan.

It was wrong to. She knew that. Thinking about a man while in bed with another wasn’t a good, healthy way to live. It seemed she’d done it once too often lately, too.

They’d been happy in the beginning. She remembered telling her mother how very happy they were.

“We are happy. So very happy. Happy, happy, happy.

“We’re perfect for one another. Both writers, both creatives. We are on the same schedule—we both like to write first thing in the morning, like to stay up late, watching movies and TV shows. We both like action movies, and despise horror films. We don’t read the same authors, so we’re able to expose each other to new ideas.

“Money? Well, not to brag, but he has plenty, but you know, Mother, so do I. Maybe not quite as much as he—okay, Mother, if I tell you a secret, will you swear not to say anything? I actually made more than he did on my last contract. It’s just the nature of commercial fiction versus literary. We genre writers are always seen as being so vulgar because we actually make money at our art. But don’t tell a soul I told you that. You promise?

“Yes, he loves me, Mother. He really does.

“Yes, he knows.

“Yes, I told him.

“Oh, for God’s sake. I need to go.”