Page 52 of Fragile Heart

“You want to talk about it?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I feel like all I’ve done this year is talk about it.”

Yeah, I remember that feeling. Everyone pesters you, wanting you to justopen upas if it’s as simple as popping the lid off a can.

“I remember that part,” I murmur.

I blow out a breath and spread my arm along the back of the swing, letting a piece of her hair twine around my finger. She pulls her gaze away from the mountains, her face a master class of concentration. I let my eyebrow rise and my thumb run along the nape of her neck. She shivers under the attention, and my dick twitches.

Damn, bad move. The last thing I want right now is to be stuck with a painful erection.

“That’s why you always phrase it as a question, isn’t it?” she asks after a while.

I offer a quiet affirmative. She nods, then lets the sounds of a ranch in the summer reclaim us. I relax into it, letting my thumb continue its light tracing of her shoulder and neck. This time, I can smell the underlying aroma of her scent, the lavender calming and arousing all at once.

I lose track of time.

Her voice pulls me from the quiet, and I focus on her.

“I hate him,” she says.

Confusion fills me.

I frown. “Ethan?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve never hated Ethan. Not even when it would have been easier,” she whispers. And then, even quieter, “His name was Brett.”

Oh, fuck, her husband.

“He died in a car crash. The only person to not survive. I… I think people expected me to be distraught over that, so they didn’t find it odd when I was angry at his funeral.” She’s quiet for a long moment. I twist more of her hair around my hand. “I’m glad he’s dead.”

Unease sours my stomach. Everything I’ve learned about Brielle over the last few weeks is at odds with her being happy over someone’s death. She’s so soft, so empathetic. What had happened that she’s glad he was killed?

“Why is that?” I ask.

Her hand tightens around the flowers, her knuckles whitening. She takes a stuttering breath, and then her shoulders relax.

“You smell like Christmas,” she whispers.

I chuckle, and she cuddles closer, running her open hand down my leg. Her scent spikes, and it has a bit of that acidic edge to it. She’s still not quite over being touch-starved. I let go of her hair and trace my hand down her waist before palming her hip. Slowly, her scent sweetens again.

“He had a mistress,” she says out of nowhere.

I freeze. “What?”

She swallows. “Yeah, that was my reaction, too. His business partner’s assistant. It was an open secret that I was too naive to figure out. Until she texted him while his phone was onthe counter right before we were about to host everyone for Thanksgiving.”

I have to breathe through the rage. Her words come faster but quieter, like she can’t bear to keep them in but they hurt even as she says them.

“They were nudes. I went digging when I saw the first one. Turns out that she’d been fucking him nearly the entire length of our marriage. The first message was time-stamped three months after we got back from the honeymoon.”

The growl rumbles through me before I can hold it back, and my scent gains a sour edge to it, poisoned by my rage. Brielle sits up, focusing on me.

“He married me because he could trust me with the money,” she says, her eyes not straying from mine.

There’s a desperation in them, like she needs me to hear the entire story even though she knows it’ll only stoke the flames of my rage. I swallow back my growl, forcing it to quiet. She flattens her hand against my leg.

“We started dating my sophomore year of college. We had a class together, but he was a year ahead of me.” She swallows. “We got engaged the summer before my senior year and then married shortly after I graduated. I made him move our original date because of Melissa’s dad dying.”

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