Page 67 of Unmatched

Whatever was left of my glowy feeling fades. I wander out of the bedroom, resting my head against the bathroom doorframe. “Your schedule’s booked out six weeks,” I mumble.

“I have a friend who’s looking for a job. She said she’d call you.”

I close my eyes. “Okay, give her my number.” Decent groomers are impossible to find. I’ve been lucky to have Scarlet this long. “Is there any way you’d consider staying on another month?”

“I’m moving in with my mom. I’m so sorry, Lydia.”

After we hang up, I sink back against the wall, trying to wrap my head around how to run two businesses, launch a third, and groom a full schedule of Scarlet’s dogs. I glance back toward our bedroom. Not to mention make time for my marriage.

When I return to my husband, it’s pretty clear the prior moment has passed. Anton’s at the edge of the bed, shirtless in his joggers. My heart sinks when he doesn’t look up. I bite my lip, watching him shove his feet into his sneakers, realizing too late, again, that I made the wrong move. Things were starting to feel different between us for the first time since the hotel. Why couldn’t I just stay in the moment? Let the call go to voicemail?

Then again, it’s not like I totally skipped out on him. What we did—this morning, last night—that should still count.

So why does it feel like I blew everything?

I pull the towel more tightly around my naked body and sink next to him on the bed, but just as I do, he stands and starts pulling on a shirt. The air seems thin. Maybe there’s a storm system moving in. Or the air pressure is simply dropping in this room.

I open my mouth to say something about that. The weather. That’s a good, safe, stupid topic. Perfect for everyone from strangers to people married for seven years. But then he grabs his phone and heads for the door. All I want is to tell him about Scarlet, acknowledge what we did, and maybe lean my head on his shoulder and cry about how hard everything is. Instead, I manage to blurt something else important.

“Someone wants to buy the Pooches.”

He stops, fingers curling at his side, the muscles in his arm and chest standing out with the tension. He looks back at me, and a flicker of something—confusion? surprise?—passes over his face. He still doesn’t speak, but he turns fully toward me.

“One second.” I hold up a finger and dart from the bed, still clutching the towel around me. I return with my laptop, glasses perched on my nose. Anton tenses at first, until I shove the computer in front of him. I pull up my current business plans for both The Pooch Park and Ooh La Pooch, and my balance sheets for the past two years. Then I click over to the written offer Charlotte forwarded from ABizCorp, LLC.

Anton takes the computer from me and settles back against the headboard, scrolling down, his eyes flashing over the text as he absorbs the pages of legal language I have only skimmed. This is something he’s really good at; he always makes sure he understands the fine print. I scoot out of the way, nearly losing my towel in the process. He must catch the movement because when I look up, his gaze burns so hot I expect the towel to burst into flames. An echo of sensation from last night heats up in my core and spreads through my body. For half a second, I’m convinced he’ll shove the computer aside and pull me back into his arms.

But he doesn’t. He clenches his jaw and drags his eyes back to the screen.

“I—I’ll go make coffee.”

In the kitchen, my chest flutters with a mix of regret and relief. About what happened last night. And this morning. Why things got weird. And finally being able to talk to him about this huge business decision.

I’ve just poured us each a strong cup of my favorite dark blend when he comes into the kitchen and places the computer on the counter. He takes the mug I offer with a nod, sipping it black while I add cream to mine. I’ve replaced the towel with my more practical robe, but somehow I still feel naked with his eyes on me. I adjust my glasses, straightening a little, trying to focus all of my attention on the screen, ready to hear his steadfast professional analysis of the offer we’ve received. He will lay out the pros and cons, maybe plug some figures into Excel, and we’ll discuss data projections and other things he understands and can explain much better than me. I will listen attentively, careful to consider everything he says, before I get around to telling him I’ve already made my decision.

But when our eyes meet, I falter. The lines that recently started crossing his forehead are missing. His shoulders have straightened. And there’s a light in his face I can’t remember ever seeing.

He glances at the screen, then raises his eyebrows. “Seems like a great deal to me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Lydia stares at me. Brows drawn, lips pursed, trying and failing to settle on irritation or overwhelm. It’s the same look she gets every year during tax season, always in the home stretch after we’ve gone over receipts, deductions, and depreciation of assets. She is a really talented employer, manager, and business owner. But she doesn’t trust herself when it comes to numbers. Even mind-blowing ones like this.

And she’s smart to be cautious. I had to read through the details three times before I decided the offer was legit.

Honestly, I wish I’d had the chance to go running before processing this. I would’ve liked to clear my head, sort out everything already knocking around my brain about last night and this morning. How she let me use a vibrator on her and I literally made her scream. And then she blew both my cock and my mind—before running away to spit in the sink like I’d shot her mouth full of poison. Not the finale I might’ve hoped for, but I didn’t care because everything up to that point was amazing. For the first time in ages, it felt like we’d truly connected.

Right up until she went running back to work.

But even if I’d run twenty miles this morning, I doubt it could’ve prepared me for this purchase offer with its pile of cash.

Well, it’s her money, not mine. But I can’t help feeling like it’s an opportunity for both of us.

“What do you mean?” she asks.

I hop up to sit on the counter, trying hard to conceal the enthusiasm bubbling in my core. “It’s a good offer on paper. But obviously there are a lot of details to consider.”

She seems almost surprised. “So . . . you think I should take it?”

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