Page 37 of The Unwanted Wife

Fuck him. I eye the antacids with longing. Fact is, I forgot to eat breakfast and skipped lunch, and poured enough coffee down my throat to cause heartburn. That’s all it is—heartburn, a result of too much acidity from the caffeine. That’s the reason my stomach is lurching at this moment.

The pressure behind my eyes swell. I grimace, then snatch up the bottle, shake out a pill onto my palm and chew on it. When I look back at Sinclair, he has a considering expression on his face.

"What?" I snap.

"I understand what you’re going through is scary."

"You have no idea," I say bitterly.

"On the contrary, I do. I’ve been there." He holds up his forefinger. "It starts as a marriage of convenience, as a fake relationship, one you’re getting into for what you think are the right reasons but are actually the wrong reasons. And then, they turn out to be the right reasons; only, you still think they're wrong and keep denying it to yourself. Then, when you wake up and acknowledge your feelings, it’s too late."

"First"—I hold up my own forefinger—"not a marriage of convenience."

"If you say so." He shrugs.

"And what do you mean by 'too late'?" I frown.

"You might have lost the love of your life by then." He lowers his forefinger, only to raise his middle finger. "Unless, of course, that's the point of this entire exercise?" He swipes his middle finger under his lower lip.

"You’re making no sense. Also, what are you? Ten?"

He continues, as if he hasn't heard me, "What’s not making sense is… Your fiancée is on her way to meet a man, while?—"

I jump up to my feet. "What the fuck do you mean?"

"I mean, she’s in the lobby of The Dorchester, waiting for a man she connected with on an online app?—"

"She’s on a fucking date?" I bellow. The sound is loud and harsh and echoes around the office with enough force, my headache turns up a notch.

"I believe that’s the technical term, yes."

"What the fuck?" I push back my chair, which tumbles to the floor, then race around the desk and past him toward the door, before coming to a standstill. I pivot and stab my finger in his direction. "How do you know where she is?"

"She mentioned it to her friend Zoey, who mentioned it to my wife Summer, who asked me to mention it to you. Her friends are worried about her. They figured if you knew, you’d intervene. Speaking of"—he stabs his middle finger at the door—"you going there, or you going to stand here holding your dick in your hand while, right now, your fiancée might be in bed with?—"

"Don’t fucking say it." The churning in my gut intensifies. I wince, then shake out another antacid and chew on it. I pocket the bottle, then glare at him. "If I find out you’re wrong?—"

"I’m not."

"—I’m going to smash my fist in your face."

18

Skylar

"You sure about this?" Zoey’s worried face looks up at me from my phone screen. She’s the only one who knows about my plan. I mentioned it to her yesterday, and only because she called me after I’d arranged the date with a man I’d matched with on a dating app.

Last night, she didn’t react in a way that made me think she was concerned. But clearly, she was, since she called me back to check in on me. I love my friends, but this is why I don’t want to share too much of what's going on in my life. Sure, it makes me come across as being closed off, but it also means I don’t have to explain myself to others. It’s not that I'm not grateful for my friends being concerned about me. But honestly, at the moment, I just want to get on with the program before I lose my nerve. That said, I knew it was prudent to let Zoey know where I was going to be, as a safety precaution. After all, I’m going to meet a stranger.

"Skylar? Did you hear what I said?" Zoey frowns

"I’m sure." I’m not. But I’m not going to tell her that.

When I went on the dating app, I made it clear I was looking for a no-strings-attached, one-night-only encounter to lose my virginity. Of course, losing my V-card attracted a host of responses. When 'Larry,' if that's his real name, recommended we meet at The Dorchester, one of the finest hotels in the city, I knew he had money. It also meant my first time would be in the lap of luxury.

After Nate walked out on me—again—and after he made it clear everything that happened between us was a mistake, I was pissed. Sure, he closed up shop for me, then carried me up to my apartment and put me to bed, which shows he cares for me. And he slept on top of the sheets fully clothed, and on his side of the bed so there was no accidental touching. Not until I reached out to touch him, that is. But then, he withdrew and made it clear what happened the night before was a mistake.

He may be attracted to me, but not enough to sleep with me. He may have feelings for me, but not enough for him to make love to me.

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