Page 93 of The Unwanted Wife

"I’m sorry, Gracie, really. I wanted to share, but I didn’t want to be judged for doing this. I didn’t want to be told it wasn’t my responsibility. I wanted to do it. I couldn’t abandon him, you know?"

"You have such a big heart," she murmurs.

"Oh, Skye." Zoey’s eyes glimmer with tears. "You must have found it so difficult to cope on your own. It’s why you always seemed so tense. I thought it was the issues you were having with the fledgling business, but it was so much more."

"I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you guys. I thought I’d be imposing on you. But now I realize, I was being selfish. I didn’t give any of you a chance to be good friends. I wasn’t generous enough to let you into my life. I’m sorry, truly."

"Hey, it’s okay. You do what works for you. Don’t feel compelled to do what you think is right according to the world. Do what is right for you, first." Grace smiles. "And if that means you want to indulge in exhibitionism, more power to you."

Zoey’s eyes round. "And how do you know about that particular kink?"

"I might have read a spicy book or two." Grace smirks.

"Why you secret filth slut," Zoey gasps.

I laugh. "So, you guys don’t mind if I admit that my husband watching me getting myself off keeps me in a state of hyper arousal and makes me want to do even more dirty things to myself to turn him on?"

Grace rolls her eyes. "Now you’re showing off."

"So, is he watching you right now?" Zoey asks in a breathless voice.

"Probably, but I don’t care. I have nothing to hide." Unlike him.

The timer on my oven dings. "Gotta go, guys, and get the next batch of Cream Horns in.”

Zoey barks out a laugh. “Cream Horns?”

“Get your mind out of the butter, babe.”

She snorts. Grace snickers.

“And that’s what they’re called, by the way, so I didn’t even have come up with a spicy booktok name.” I pretend to blow on my nails and rub them on my collar. “Not my fault if my customers decide these innocent conical choux pastry filled with whipped cream remind them of certain parts of the male anatomy.”

“Of course not.” Grace nods.

“I might have exaggerated the conical shape, so it resembled said parts, of course.”

Both burst out laughing.

I blow them a kiss. “See you two very soon.” I disconnect, then pull out the tray of desserts and set it aside to cool, before popping the other into the oven. By the time I’m done with the next tray, Nate still hasn’t arrived. I check my phone and notice I missed a message from him.

Husband: Heavy traffic due to an accident on the freeway. Be there soon. Love you, wife.

Warmth suffuses my chest. I begin to type, ‘love you, too,’ then delete it. I settle for liking his message with a heart, then glance around the space. It’s dark outside, and when I check the time on my phone, I realize it’s almost nine-thirty p.m. I ended up tasting some of the Cream Horns—you know, the ones that came out of the oven not looking perfect, and which I wouldn’t have been able to serve anyway; keep telling yourself that, girl—and they were soooo good. But now, I’m not hungry.

I stretch, yawn, and start cleaning up the kitchen. When the oven dings, I pull out the cakes and slide them onto a sheet tray on the counter before covering them with a cake dome with vents to let air through. I’ll leave them to cool overnight and frost them tomorrow. I decide to go up to my flat and wait for him. I’ve been thinking of turning it into an office, now that I don’t use it as a living space anymore. Maybe, at some point in the future?

I take off my apron and yawn again, grab my phone and my handbag, and locking up the shop, make my way upstairs. I’m so sleepy, I could probably grab a nap before he arrives. In fact, I might as well make myself comfortable. I bought a few essentials and keep them in the apartment just for times like this, including the pair of sleep shorts and camisole that I change into.

By the time I hit my bed, my body feels so heavy. Guess it’s from all those nights of not having much sleep—thanks to those lovely orgasms my husband has drawn from me, and which I’m not complaining about, at all. I’m so tired. I close my eyes and drift off.

A tapping on the door wakes me up. I sit up, shove my legs over the side of the bed and stand up.

"Coming!" I shove my hair on top of my head into a messy bun, then head to the door and throw it open. And blink.

Nate’s standing there. But... He’s in uniform, and he’s holding his cap in his hand. There’s a woman standing next to him. She’s also in uniform, but she’s wearing a collar that marks her out as a chaplain. A chaplain? Why is she here with Nate?

A strong sense of déjà vu grips me.

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