The Wife Who Stopped Playing Chapter 06

The Wife Who Stopped Playing Chapter 06

The burn wasn’t even that bad. Barely pink by the time we got home. Could’ve been a sunburn.

But Vito still took a half day off to babysit me. Told his underbosses he was “unavailable.” Turned

his phone off. Made a pot of coffee and set up his laptop on the kitchen island like he was planning

to stay.

I knew he had work. Real work. The kind of work that didn’t pause for minor kitchen accidents. But

he didn’t complain. Didn’t mention it. Just poured me a cup of tea and went back to his spreadsheets

– or whatever he was pretending to look at while he watched me from across the room.

He’d changed out of his funeral suit into something softer. A black cashmere sweater, thin enough

that I could see the shape of his shoulders underneath. Sleeves pushed up past his elbows, showing

those forearms – corded, dusted with dark hair, leading down to those hands I knew too well. The

kind of hands that could break a man’s neck or trace my spine, depending on his mood.

The afternoon light from the window caught the side of his face. That profile. Sharp enough to cut glass. High cheekbones, a nose that had been broken once and healed slightly crooked, a jaw that looked like it had been carved by someone who really cared about symmetry. His dark hair fell over his forehead, and every few minutes he’d push it back with an absent-minded hand.

I curled up on the couch with my tea and tried not to stare.

I failed.

He caught me looking once. His lips twitched. “See something you like?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late. I’m already very flattered.” He went back to his screen, but the corner of his mouth

stayed curled up.

I flipped through my phone. Instagram. Twitter. A cooking blog I didn’t care about. Nothing held my

attention. My eyes kept drifting back to him, to the way the light moved across his shoulders when he typed, to the little furrow between his brows when he was concentrating.

This was the man who’d said “keep it quiet, yeah?” in a room full of his friends. The man who’d described me like a project. A long-term investment.

But this was also the man who carried burn cream in his pocket because I’d hurt myself six weeks

ago.

Who’d carried my cat – his cat – the one he said he didn’t want, wrapped in his

five-thousand-dollar coat.

Who’d driven forty minutes in the rain to bring me sushi when I was craving it, even though 1 hadn’t asked.

Which one was real?

His phone buzzed on the coffee table. Twice.

I glanced at it without thinking. The screen lit up. A name I didn’t recognize. A message preview I

couldn’t read from this angle.

Then Vito was moving, fast, too fast, crossing the room in three long strides and scooping the

phone off the table before I could blink.

He held it behind his back like a kid hiding a bad report card. His smile was too bright. “Work stuff.

You know how it is. Big project.”

“Okay.”

But when I got up to refill my tea and wandered past the island, his phone was face-down on the

counter. Screen dark.

He hadn’t looked at whatever came through.

“Doesn’t your hand hurt?” he asked, a little too quickly. “You should go lie down. I’ll wake you when dinner’s ready. I’ll make that pasta you like. The one with the lemon.”

“No, I’m fine. I’ll keep you company.”

His thumb pressed white against the edge of his phone.

The afternoon stretched out. Quiet. Uncomfortable. A different kind of quiet than the one we usually shared – not companionable silence, but the kind that comes before a fight.

Then, out of nowhere, he pushed his laptop aside. His hands found my hips. He lifted me onto the island – the marble was cold through my jeans and stepped between my legs, boxing me in.

“Maybe,” he said, his voice dropping low, “we could find something else to do.”

His lips found mine. Soft at first. Then harder. His tongue swept across my lower lip, asking, and when I didn’t say no, he deepened the kiss. His hand came up to cradle the back of my head, fingers

threading through my hair.

“Don’t you need to check that message?” I asked against his mouth.

“Not more than I need you.”

He kissed me again. His free hand slid up my thigh, thumb tracing the inseam of my jeans. I could

feel the heat of him through the denim, through the thin cotton of my underwear, through every

barrier I’d tried to put up between us.

And that’s when I knew. For sure.

He was hiding something. Something he’d rather distract me from than explain. Something he

didn’t want me to see.

My stomach turned over. Cold, not warm.

I grabbed his wrist. Gently, but firmly.

“Actually,” I said, “I’m tired. I think I will go lie down.”

He pulled back. His eyes searched my face. The wanting was still there, dark and heavy, but

underneath it, something else was creeping in.

Confusion. And underneath that fear.

“Okay.” His voice was rough. “Okay. Go rest. I’ll… I’ll make dinner.”

He let me go.

I walked out of the kitchen without looking back.