Page 29 of Fireworks & Forehead Kisses

Through the lobby of the building, and as I rode the elevator up to the penthouse, I wondered what sort of voodoo spell Ashley Thompson had cast over my grandmother. I’d been wary of her, but the fact that she had her eating was definitely a check in the pro column. Also, she passed the Hannah Hayes test. She’d interviewed her, and although Ashley didn’t have anyexperience, Hannah reported back that she was bright, creative, and considered her an asset to the company with the caveat that she wasnotqualified for the position of COO, but she would rather have her in the role than Raquel.

The elevator doors opened to the apartment, and when I walked in, I heard music playing. Serena was home. We could finally have our talk. She was most likely taking a bath. She always listened to music while she was in the bath.

That conversation I’d had with Gran about the paper she’d found had been replaying in my mind a lot lately. Not because I believed that I knew what I wanted in a wife when I was six years old. Although it was slightly unnerving that Serena hadn’t met one of those criteria.

It was the question she’d asked me.

“What do you love about Serena?”

It was strange, but lately, I felt like I didn’t even know my fiancée. When we first got together, we spent most of our time in bed. We had really great sexual chemistry. Outside of bed, we shared the same taste in music, television, art, and film. She was classy, stunning, smart, and an asset at business dinners and social settings.

I hate that that had been a consideration, but I was a realist, and it was.

Before my grandfather died, those things felt like enough.

So why did they suddenly not?

Why did his death make everything seem so much more important and somehow less important simultaneously?

It was strange how different the world felt without him in it. He’d been such a looming figure in my life.

I walked up the stairs and was so lost in my own thoughts that I didn’t register the sounds I heard coming from the bedroom before I pushed the door open. As soon as I walkedinside, the sounds I’d overheard registered with what I saw in front of me.

Serena was naked in bed with another man. Her back was to me, and she was riding him.

“Fuck me. Yes, yes, yes,” she moaned out as she bounced on his cock.

“When you’re done, we need to talk,” I calmly stated before turning around and walking out of the room.

Serena gasped before screaming. As I made my way down the stairs, I could hear a commotion behind me in the room. With each step, I waited to feel something: anger, sadness, or betrayal. The only emotion I felt at the moment was disgust—not for the reasons one might assume. I was bothered at the thought of her being with another man in our bed before tonight and not changing the sheets. It was very unsanitary. That’s what offended me.

Thankfully, we always used protection, so STDs weren’t a concern. Even though she assured me that she was on the birth control shot, my mysophobia and OCPD dictated that I always use contraception no matter what my relationship status had been.

I entered the den and sat on the saddle brown leather armchair, patiently waiting for her to join me downstairs. A man hurried down the steps before her, barefoot, shirtless, and in tattered jeans. He had long blond hair and a chiseled upper body. I recognized him from a billboard I’d seen for a Calvin Klein ad with her. I assumed she must have met him on the shoot.

Serena ran down the stairs behind him in a robe and came into the den with tears brimming in her eyes while he walked directly to the elevator.

“It’s not what you think,” she rushed to explain.

“I don’t think there’s much room for interpretation for what I just walked in on.”

“I mean, I don’t love him. It was just sex.”

“Do you love me?” It wasn’t a rhetorical question. Or even one born from anger or hurt. I was genuinely curious.

“Of course I do.” She sat down on the round black coffee table in front of me.

“What do you love about me?” I posed the same question Gran had posed to me.

“What do you mean? We’ve been together for eight years.”

“Seven,” I corrected her. “That’s not what I asked you. What do you love about me?”

She shook her head and blinked several times. “Um, I love our—um, I love our Sunday nights watching movies in bed. And I love um, when we go to the opera, and we go to concerts. And what was that restaurant we tried last year, um, Dominico’s? I love that we always try new food.”

“Yes. We like the same movies and music and food. What do you love aboutme?”

“You’re hot. You’re sexy. You’re always on time.”

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