Page 26 of Unmatched

I came so close to calling Anton out last night when I got home. He clearly wasn’t asleep. It would’ve been so easy to just stand there and tell him I knew. Or even better, send it in a message from LonelyGirl8, just to heighten his shame. But when I walked in, I was just so relieved to see him there. Not at some hotel, or worse, in some other woman’s bed. And I can’t think what would have stopped him if he didn’t still have feelings for me.

We could still make this work.

At six thirty sharp, I step out of the bathroom and walk carefully down the hall. I had just enough time to shower, do my hair, and put on a little mascara after rushing home from work. I hope it’s enough. Since I don’t get much practice in heels, I’m afraid I might fall right out of these pumps if I move faster than a saunter. But considering the party and who’s throwing it, cocktail attire seemed like my only choice.

Anton waits by the front window. Even though he wears a suit every day to work, I stop now, trying to view his figure the way another woman would. Taking in his broad, square shoulders and narrow waist. Imagining the set of washboard abs beneath his crisp white shirt. I stand straighter and suck in, trying not to feel too mismatched since the only weightlifting I do involves hauling dogs into bathtubs. But in the mirror, at least, I looked pretty good. I went with the blue dress I wore to Celia’s wedding—the one from the photo Anton cut me out of on Unmatched. Passive-aggressive? Most definitely. But after last night, I couldn’t help myself.

I hadn’t expected to see him in the hall this morning, hadn’t had time to sip my coffee and process what he’d done. The profile. The messages. The things MountainMan3 said to LonelyGirl8. What he said he wanted from her. Accusations were on my lips the moment I laid eyes on him. But when it came time to speak, I found myself playing along. I’m not sure why. Maybe I wanted to pretend we were the same couple we’d been a few days ago. Weeks. Maybe years.

And isn’t that what he’s doing too?

He’d said he couldn’t go through with it. He’d stayed home. And this morning, he asked me on a date.

He turns his head as I enter the room, and suddenly I’m all too aware of his eyes scanning my figure, lingering on the cleavage at my neckline. His lips seem to form a word he doesn’t say aloud. I wait for any sign that he makes the connection between the dress and his cheating profile picture, but he just steps toward me, eyes glowing.

“Wow. You look . . .”

I rest one hand on my hip and run it up to toy with my hair, which I blew out smooth, making note of the way his gaze tracks my motions. Like his thoughts and desires are somehow tied to my body’s movements. Like I could crush him, or crush him to me just by biting my lip. It’s a strange, heady feeling. I have felt so powerless the last twenty-four hours, I’m not sure what to do with it.

But then he takes a step forward, hands rising toward me, and an alarm goes off inside my brain.

I step back, the Unmatched messages burning fresh in my mind. What he wants is clear. But I can’t say the same for me.

“Ready to go?” I say, examining a speck of nothing on my skirt.

In my peripheral vision, I watch him flounder. And for a second, I even feel bad. He came home, to me, and now I’m toying with him. But I’m not exactly ready to run into his arms.

“Uh, yeah.” He plunges his hands into his pockets and pulls out his keys.

I give Heartthrob a kiss on top of his head and a frozen Kong full of dog food, then I grab Carl Wallace’s birthday present—a personalized leather-wrapped desktop Bluetooth speaker—and follow Anton out the door.

“Thanks for picking up a gift,” he says halfway to the car. “I’m sure you chose better than I would’ve.”

“That’s why you married me,” I say, though the words come out a bit sharper than I intend.

He doesn’t answer, opening the passenger side of his truck for me like he has since the day I met him. It took me a while to get used to that; he’s always said his mother would expect it. I frown, thinking about Sharon and how she’d feel about her son’s Unmatched profile.

“It’s nice going out for a change,” Anton says, climbing into the driver’s seat next to me. “I’ve missed you, Mrs. Richie.”

I shoot him a glance. If anyone’s been missing here, it’s him.

Except...I know that isn’t true. We could’ve gone out Saturday, couldn’t we?

I drop my gaze to my lap. “I keep saying it’ll get easier?—”

“When Pooch Two is open,” he mutters. “Yeah. You do keep saying that.”

I bite my lip, tension spooling in my chest. If he wants to sling guilt trips, I’ve got a hefty one to hit him with.

But then we stop at a light and he turns to me, placing his hand over mine. “Thanks for making the time tonight.”

He lets go so he can drive through the intersection, and I soften a little. He hasn’t sent any more messages to LonelyGirl8—I checked—but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been on the app. Maybe he’s found some other girl he likes better. Someone who didn’t turn him off by bringing up spanking. I steal a glance at him, my cheeks heating at this thought. Or maybe last night was just what he needed to remember he has everything he needs right here.

Eva and Carl Wallace live south of Denver, all the way down near Castle Rock, in a newly built house that could hold four or five of ours inside it. We’ve been there one other time for a Christmas party, and it didn’t seem like a bad commute, but tonight, when we’re both clearly struggling with conversation, the thirty-minute trip seems to drag.

Deer scatter in the yard when we pull up to the Tuscany-meets-American-suburbs house. All the windows are lit up, and as I exit the car, I can tell there’s music playing inside, but out here on the gravel drive, it’s pretty quiet. I pick my way carefully over the pebbles toward the double front doors until I realize Anton’s still in the truck, gripping the wheel. I frown, looking back at him. He’s always hated work social events. The fact that we’re here at all tells me this one must be important to him. And despite everything else churning through my head this evening, a wave of sympathy surges through my chest. I want to make this easier for him.

He notices me waiting and slams the truck door, quickly coming up beside me. The ground is uneven, and as I wobble toward the front porch, I am seriously regretting my choice of shoes. The faux stone front steps seem a million miles away. We finally make our way up to them when my heel goes out from under me. I let out a gasp, pitching toward the porch, but just before my knees hit concrete, Anton’s sturdy arm swoops around my waist. He steadies me, bringing me upright into the circle of his arms. His earthy, clean scent inundates my nose as he ensures I stay on my feet.

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