Page 1 of Unmatched

CHAPTER ONE

He’s giving me that look again. I’m parked behind my laptop at the kitchen table. He’s over by the coffee machine, leaning against the counter. His shirt is off, tucked into his waistband, joggers low on his tapered hips. His tanned skin gleams with sweat, brown hair damp and curling at his forehead. At first glance, it looks like he’s just sipping his water, but I know better. His arms are crossed to show off the curve of his biceps. His forearms hover over the hills and valleys of his artfully carved abs.

His gaze glides up my legs, caressing each inch of skin as if his eyes were his hands—until his jaw tightens halfway up my thighs. I glance down. At the peek of black lace where my robe has parted most of the way up my legs and down between my breasts. His lips open just slightly. He shifts his hips against the counter. And now his thoughts are so loud it’s impossible to keep pretending I’m absorbed by my screen. I have to raise my head.

Our eyes meet, and his gaze is a searing invitation.

I should cross the room. Kiss him. Let him pull me into the bedroom to act out the wild visions clearly happening in his head. My hands go to the place where the lace peeks out. He takes in a short breath and licks his lips, stepping toward me with fingers outstretched.

Quickly, I tuck my leg under me, pull my robe shut, and tighten the belt.

“Is there any more coffee?” I look past him toward the stainless carafe.

He doesn’t move. Not at first. And in the seconds that pass, my guilt sputters to life.

The nightgown was a mistake.

I couldn’t find my favorite pajamas last night. The soft, comfortable, blue-striped ones. It was warm in the house and I was tired, so I threw on the first thing I touched when I opened my drawer. A satin and lace nightgown he bought for our anniversary last year—or maybe it was two years ago. I feel pretty when I wear it, sexy even, but I only slipped it on out of laziness. I wasn’t thinking about him at all, just that I didn’t have the energy to look for anything else. And now I’ve sent the wrong message.

Anton’s face hardens. He pulls the coffeepot out robotically, overfills the mug beside me with steaming black brew, and disappears down the hall.

The bathroom door slams.

I stare at my screen, leaving the coffee untouched. I’m in the middle of payroll. I need to get to the bank, then Costco. I still have to stop by my office and order my mom’s birthday gift before meeting Caprice for lunch. And I have a meeting with my contractor this afternoon to check the progress on renovations to the second Pooch Park location.

Anton knows Saturdays are crazy.

Saturdays, I’m off limits.

He’d been snoring down the hall last night for at least an hour before I went to bed. If I’d turned a light on to find something else to sleep in, I might not have woken with his hand resting on my thigh, his stiff, heavy length pressed against my back in his sleep. Maybe he wouldn’t have gone for a run when he got up—whenever he does that, he comes back all amped and sweaty and often wants to fool around. If I’d found my blue-striped pajamas, he wouldn’t have thought twice when he found me sitting at the table doing payroll in my glasses. Dressed or not dressed.

But, I remind myself, it shouldn’t matter what I’m wearing. He should know when I need space.

Even if that’s most of the time.

A tennis ball lands in my lap. Heartthrob, our brown and white Akita mix, sits in front of me like a perfect gentleman, gazing patiently, optimistically at my hands. The whisk of his arched tail on the tile is the only indicator of his aspirations. I toss the ball into the living room and watch him take off after it while trying to decide just how pissed my husband is. We had sex not that long ago. Last month, I think. No—he wanted to, but I had my period. Also off limits. But sometime recently, I remember we did. We spent almost an hour going at it, and I was sore the whole next day.

Ugh.

Is a month too long?

I hate myself immediately for even asking the question. We’re a young, attractive couple. We should be shagging like bunnies, as my friend Caprice likes to say.

Heartthrob returns with his treasure, and this time I toss it down the hall toward the closed bathroom door. The shower is running; I could slip in there with Anton. He’d love that. He always says how much sexier everything is when we’re wet. I guess? The times I joined him, everything seemed cold and awkward to me. But if I do that, once it’s over, I won’t have to feel guilty anymore. He’d back off for at least another week or two. I glance back to my computer. Maybe I can just offer a blowjob. I grimace. My jaw always gets sore, it’s impossible not to gag, and I can never figure out how to breathe. But he loves that, and if we finish quickly, I might even still have time to run my reports before lunch.

Heartthrob drops the ball at my feet, but this time I ignore him. I get up and head for the bathroom, removing my robe with a sigh before I reach the door. There’s a mirror in the hall and I take a minute to check my reflection, looking for blemishes on my skin or coffee grounds in my teeth. The nightgown is flattering. Black satin edged with lace that dips low in the back. My hair is pulled into an unflattering bun, but that won’t matter once it’s wet. I place my hand on the knob.

My phone rings in the kitchen.

It’s not the regular ring. The notes are from a Pitbull song, indicating it’s Tomás, my manager at The Pooch Park. Saturday isn’t one of our busiest days; he wouldn’t call me unless he had to. My heart rate skips. I pull my robe back on and dash for the phone.

“Tom? What’s up?”

“Sorry to bother you, Lydia, I just—” He exhales into the receiver. “We’ve got seventy dogs here, and it’s just me and Francie.”

“Seventy? On a weekend?” I stop, backing up. “Wait, why just you and Francie? Where is everyone?”

“‘Sick,’” he says, using audible air quotes. “Maybe it’s the weather?”

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