Page 74 of Bitter Confessions

By the time she was sitting at her vanity to do her nighttime rituals, her agitation had lessened considerably. She took her time putting on creams and blow-drying her hair. Her vanity was covered in perfumes, oils, and hair and skin products, while Roth’s remained bare aside from the basics. She’d tried to contain her belongings to their designated area so she wouldn’t encroach on his territory. She would have preferred to have her own bedroom and bathroom, but he’d insisted they play the part of a real married couple so they wouldn’t give the staff anything to gossip about. She understood, but she worried her messy tendencies would agitate his OCD.

As a child, she’d been obsessively neat. With a father like Maximus, being tidy, prompt, and presentable was a necessity. But once she was on her own, she’d allowed herself a little leniency. For the most part, she was still neat and organized, but when she was in reading or writing mode, her environment paid the price. This week, she’d forgotten herself. She’d left books in the living room, kitchen, and even the bathroom. Empty cups were everywhere. Clothes were draped over chairs or left on the floor instead of being tossed in a hamper. They’d never truly lived together, and the short time they’d occupied the same space, they’d drowned in sex. That was almost ten years ago. They were different people now.

When she entered the closet, Jasmine saw the pile of clothes she left on the ground when she’d changed to meet Sarai was no longer there. She hoped the housekeeper had been the one to pick them up, but a glance at the suit Roth had changed out of and placed in the designated area for dry cleaning made her doubtful. She’d make more of an effort not to be so careless in the future.

She tugged on sweats and thick socks and climbed into bed with her laptop. She read and reread Johanna Ledger’s message, still unable to believe she’d made contact with her favorite author. She wanted to continue the conversation, to befriend Johanna and enhance the connection, but she didn’t want to come off as a weirdo. Instead, she turned her attention to responding to comments on her post and got into a spirited discussion about Ballad of Deception. She snickered when Sarai joined.

Didn’t I tell you he’d be happy to see you?

She rolled her eyes as Sarai’s name popped up in a private chat and sent the correlating emoji.

Tell me what you did in the office will end up in the next book!

Her cheeks heated. I don’t know what you’re talking about, she messaged back.

Don’t play innocent. He couldn’t get enough of you on the flight back to New York. I know exactly what you look like after he’s wrung you out.

She was mortified, amused, and a little smug. You have a problem.

Yes, it’s called an overactive imagination. I don’t know what’s worse—coming up with scenarios or knowing every detail.

Why don’t you apply those scenarios to the book you’re supposed to be writing?

She grinned at the emoji Sarai sent with the tongue sticking out and glowered when she received a list of interior designers.

I emailed you links to their websites and TV shows or magazines they’ve been featured in so you can get a feel for them and their work. These designers think outside the box. I’m sure one of them will suit you!

Jasmine ignored the list and returned to the discussion. Her readers were nagging her for information on book five. After a short internal debate, she admitted to severe writer’s block and that she was going through some personal challenges. Losing her father, becoming a multimillionaire, and remarrying her ex definitely justified as challenging. Most of the readers were understanding, supportive, and sympathetic, but there were a few dicks who said they were giving up on her for not delivering and started ranting about what an awful author she was for not publishing regularly.

She blocked these accounts instead of giving them a platform to rant. She wasn’t going to apologize for needing more time. No explanation would satisfy them, and if she rushed through a book, these same readers would be the first ones to criticize her for lazy writing or putting out something subpar. She wasn’t going to live her life being controlled by the masses. She’d already spent most of her life trying to please people. Suppressing her own wants and needs for others was a recipe for disaster. Wisdom had taught her to put herself first and protect her peace, even if that meant she lost a chunk of her audience. She had no intention of begging anyone to stay. Those who appreciated her and were willing to wait would stick around. The others could fuck off and find other authors who met their requirements.

She was so into the chat that when she saw something move out of the corner of her eye, she yelped and clutched her laptop to her chest as if that would protect her from the boogie man. Roth raised a brow as he slicked back his sweat-soaked hair.

“How long have you been standing there?” she demanded.

“Long enough to hear you muttering about someone named Tess and Ren, and that someone could kiss your ass.”

She bit her lip to stop herself from laughing. Roth wasn’t smiling. If anything, he looked angrier than when he’d left. Wasn’t he supposed to be filled with endorphins after a workout?

“I’m chatting with my girls.”

“Your readers?” he asked as he pulled his shirt over his head.

Her mind went blank as she took in the ripped body on display. If her girls could see Rex in the flesh, they’d start to salivate.

“Jasmine.”

Her eyes flicked from the pants that hung ridiculously low on his hips to his scowl. “What?”

He shook his head, clearly annoyed, and stalked into the bathroom. Propped against the headboard, she had an excellent view of him as he stripped. If he weren’t so pissy, she might have joined him in the shower and offered to scrub him down. Instead, she took in his sculpted body from afar, and when it disappeared from view, she opened a fresh document to describe that work of art in as much detail as possible for future reference.

She had no clue what she’d said to put him in such a foul mood. She didn’t want him to stay that way. She wanted happy, affectionate Roth. On a burst of inspiration, she raced out of the room. Maybe having something sweet might cheer him up. She’d rarely seen him eat dessert, aside from Thanksgiving with her family, and he’d never commented on the delicious dinners from the in-house five-star chef. The food could have been tasteless for all the attention he paid it. Food was purely for sustenance, not pleasure. Well, she was going to change that.

He was standing beside the bed in a pair of gray sweatpants, his chest bare, when she skidded into the room.

“I know this is the last thing you should be eating, but they’re so good. You have to try one.” She offered him the package, but when he didn’t take it, her smile faded. “You don’t like cookies?”

“I’ve never had one.”

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