Page 8 of The Billionaire's Wife

This was getting me nowhere.

I grabbed my keys off the hook, unlocked the door, and stepped into the hall. After a moment’s thought, I relocked the door and headed for the stairs.

No point in taking the elevator when the whole point of working out was exercise.

My muscles were warm and limber by the time I reached the basement gym. The lights were off and no noise pumped out of the TVs on the wall. I flipped the switches to turn on the bright overheads, but opted for quiet.

My head was noisy enough without adding to it.

I chose the treadmill farthest from the door, stepped on, and hit the power. I scanned the program options and finally settled on a thirty-minute hilly run. Maybe the changing intensity would be enough to wear me out and stop all the obsessing.

I pushed start and fell into step on the conveyor belt. I focused on keeping my breathing deep and even. The only sound was the hum of the machine and light slaps of the soles of my shoes as I ran.

I didn’t love running, but it was good for helping me focus. By the time the machine slowed to a stop, sweat ran in rivulets down my back and my muscles sang out in exhaustion. I swiped my forehead with my shoulder and blinked the sting of sweat from my eyes. I should have brought a towel down. While I worked to steady my breathing, I used alcohol wipes to clean the machine, then turned to face the free weights.

Normally, after a run, I’d spend another fifteen or twenty minutes with them. Ingrained habit had my feet moving that direction, but I stopped halfway across the mat. There was no way.

Not today.

I didn’t even usually work out on the weekends, so I was ahead of the game. Besides, in addition to the usual tired-but-energized feeling that came from working out? I felt vaguely ill.

It was most likely the lack of sleep.

I pressed my lips together as I was hit with a wave of nausea. Definitely the lack of sleep. I remembered this feeling from law school the few times I’d been forced to pull all-nighters. Planning ahead was my preferred choice—it had been in school and it continued in life—but sometimes stuff came up.

And then I paid the price.

Shaking my head, I headed out of the gym, pausing to flip the lights back off. I had no idea what the usual crowd was like on weekends, but there was no point in running up the electric bill on a common area. The association was always looking for reasons to increase our condo fees.

I took the stairs to the main level and paused, a hand on the rail, then looked up.

Nope.

I pushed through the door into the lobby. My stomach growled. I hesitated. I had cereal upstairs. The coffee I usually made. Did I need to go out and get something fancier—better?—because I had a guest?

Mom would say yes. Dad called her “the hostess with the mostest” and it was probably true. But I wasn’t trying to be the male version of that. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be a host. Actually, that was untrue. I knew I didn’t want to be one.

I just didn’t have a choice.

Dad was a big fan of “begin as you mean to go on.” So today? I guess I was on team Dad. If Faith didn’t like cereal and my locally roasted coffee beans, she was welcome to go out and find something else. Or order it up.

That would be her problem to handle. Not mine.

I was already on the hook to handle enough of her problems.

I strode across the lobby to the elevators and poked the call button. The doors slid open immediately and before long, I was letting myself inside my condo.

I closed the door, locked it, and stood with my head cocked, listening. It was still quiet. I could pretend it was empty. If I was any good at pretending, at least.

I hung the key back up and went to the kitchen. No Faith. I blew out a breath. Good. I’d get the coffee set up, go take a shower, and then, if everything worked out the way I hoped? Maybe I could even get a cup of coffee and some food into me before I had to face Faith.

I filled the bean grinder and winced slightly at the noise, but it was unavoidable. The taste was better—so much better—with fresh ground. Maybe I’d gotten spoiled, but usually there was no one to care what time I started things up in the kitchen.

When the machine was set with grounds and water, I hit the button to start it brewing, then hurried down the hallway to my room. The door to the guest room remained closed. No light peeked out from under it. The hall bathroom was dark and empty.

I breathed a quick prayer of thanks for that seemingly small favor and slipped into my bedroom, taking extra care to lock my door, before shedding my sweaty workout clothes and heading into the bathroom to shower.

I think I got in and out of the hot water faster than ever before in my lifetime. There was a part of me that would have loved to stand under the hot spray and imagine my life was normal—or at least the normal I’d been fine with before yesterday—but also? I really wanted coffee without Faith.

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