Page 53 of His

“Besides the fact he was good in bed?”

“Right.”

“Well, initially, his looks. He’s the kind of guy that makes you want to know more about him and he has this super sexy dangerous vibe.”

“Dark and mysterious.”

“Yeah. All the women at the bar swoon over him. I’m not the only one he’s taken home. I saw him leave with two other women on two occasions.”

“Yikes. Okay, then let me ask you this: why would you want a man like that?”

“Fair point.”

“Good. Think about that every time you see him. Okay, now let’s talk about your hair…”

For the next thirty minutes, we discuss layers and highlights, then sift through Sabine’s clothes.

In a blue sundress, I stand in front of the mirror and stare at my reflection. My cat eyes, my glossed lips, my curled, voluminous hair. I don’t recognize this woman, but I instantly love her.

Sabine steps back, hands on hips. “You look like a million bucks.”

“I feel like a million bucks.”

“Good. Now. Leo is outside on the north side of the house. Go outside and pretend to be taking a break, let him see you, then turn around and walk right back inside.”

I grin from ear to ear then wrap my hands around her. “Thank you, Sabine.”

“You’ve got this, Brittney. Love yourself first, and everything else will fall in line. I promise.”

Thirty-Four

Sabine

I’ve just come in from the garden when I hear an incessant thud, thud, thud, followed by something crashing against the floor. The sound is coming from Astor’s office.

Has Valerie completely lost it? I picture her destroying the house in a fit of rage as I hurry into the hall.

But her bedroom door is closed.

I turn toward the office the moment something else crashes to the ground.

What the hell?

I rush into the room.

“Astor,” I gape. “What are you doing?”

Standing on a chair, Astor is pulling down stacks of boxes from the built-in shelving above the computer desk. His face is flushed, his eyes puffy and dark. Toppled boxes scatter the floor, along with papers, old pictures, random knick-knacks.

Streaks of blood run down his forearms.

“Astor!” I whisper-hiss, quietly closing the door behind me so as not to disturb Valerie. “What the hell—get down!”

He appears to be in some sort of trance—and very, very angry. When he doesn’t respond, I grab his elbow, and drag him off the chair.

He’s unsteadied. His breath is coming in short, panicked pants.

“What’s wrong?”

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