I head upstairs to get ready for the hike. I’m not expecting any messages, so when I pick up my phone and see a text notification from an area code and number I don’t recognize, I almost swipe it away without reading it, assuming it’s spam. At the last second, I stop myself.

The message is from Christian.

CHAPTER
6

HEY, BEAUTIFUL. WOKE up hard as a rock, thinking about you. Was that what you had in mind? If you want to finish what you started last night, text me.

Two things happen when I see this message. One, my hands shake so much I almost drop the phone. Two, gleeful triumph rises up in me with a rush of heat so fierce I feel as though I’m glowing with it. All those years of playing the pushmi-pullyu game with him have come to this. I was once his dirty little secret … but now he’s become mine.

The triumph doesn’t last long. I’m not going to answer him. I’m not even sure how he got my number. My game ended last night when I left him high and dry. I have no intention of dragging it out any longer.

It would be easy enough to block his number, obviously, but if I do that, how will I know if he texts me again? Just because I don’t plan to reply doesn’t mean I don’t want to know if he does it again. I hesitate before deleting the message. My finger hovers over the “I” for “info.” A tap brings up choices. Block is one of them.

Before I can make a decision, my bedroom door opens. I slide my phone quickly into the pocket of my sweatshirt. I’m surprised Eli would come in without knocking. More surprised to see that it’s Ken.

He greets me with a grunt and goes immediately into the bathroom. The shower comes on. I am frozen for a moment before I gather my wits enough to peek in on him. His clothes have been tossed onto the floor and on, but not in, the hamper. This is not like him. Ken is meticulous about laundry. He’d been the one to show me how to do it, as a matter of fact, when we were first married, and I tried to throw all the wash into the same load. His standards for his laundry are still so high that I’ve never managed to meet them. Everything else around the house is my responsibility, but he always washes his own clothes.

He’s scrubbing himself beneath water so hot it’s already steaming the mirror.

“Everything okay?” I ask him from the doorway.

Another grunt.

“I wasn’t expecting you home until Thursday.” I don’t approach the dirty clothes, or what I suspect is a filthy husband.

“We have tomorrow off,” he says. “Labor Day? I came home early. I thought you’d be glad.”

I bite the tip of my tongue in irritation, but I make sure to keep my tone dulcet sweet. “Of course I am.”