Page 6 of Sins of a Husband

“Thank you, young man.” Oliver graciously tips him.

“Thank you. Enjoy your evening.”

We head to Taglialatella Galleries in Chelsea. Typically, they close at six p.m., but tonight, they’re hosting an invite-only private art viewing for elite customers. Oliver is obsessed with art and was an elite customer before I met him. We didn’t need any more artwork for the house, but we decided to come anyway because the gallery holds profound memories for us—our first meeting.

I had only been in New York for six months and was whisked out of my apartment by my friend and colleague Samantha. Out of the corner of my eye, a painting caught my attention and held me in a trance. I couldn’t tear myself away until a deep voice suddenly rang from behind, startling me.

“What do you think it means?”

“Oh, my gosh.” I place my hand over my heart. “You startled me.”

The man is now beside me. Six feet tall, short, dark, meticulously styled hair, masculine jawline, baby blue eyes, and a warm smile that would captivate any woman.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I was across the room and noticed you’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes, staring at that painting.”

“Something about it called out to me.” I place my finger on my lips.

“It’s different. That’s for sure,” the handsome man says. “So, I’ll ask again. What do you think it means?”

“The artist named it Eyes Without a Face,” I say. “Perhaps someone is always watching. They have eyes, but you can never see their face. I have no idea.” I laugh.

“I know the movie,” he says. “It’s a French horror film about a plastic surgeon’s daughter who was in a terrible car accident and was left with a disfigured face. She wore a mask to hide it, and all you saw were her eyes. Her father, the surgeon, murdered people and collected different facial features to restore her face.”

“That sounds awful.” I glance at him.

“It was.” He laughed. “I’m Oliver Tate.” He extends his hand, and I am eager to shake it.

“Katherine Grisham. You can call me Kat.” I place my hand in his.

That night changed my life.

The painting is still here.I spot it the moment we step inside the gallery. I’m drawn to it again, like the night I met Oliver.Eyes Without a Face.A bunch of random eyes, different shapes and sizes, staring back. Only eyes. Lurking in the shadows, watching.

“There you are.” Oliver walks over and wraps his arm around my waist.

“I need this painting, Oliver,” I say.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, please, darling.” I turn and place my hand on his muscular chest. “You know I never ask for much.”

“And where would you put it? Because there is no way that painting is going in our bedroom.”

“It’ll go in the corner of the living room by the window. We still have that easel in storage, right?”

“We do.” He nods. “All I want is for you to be happy. If you want the painting, it’s yours.”

I smile, wrapping my arms around his neck and kiss him. “Thank you, Oliver.”

We arrive home. He immediately picks me up and carries me up the stairs to our bedroom to finish celebrating our second wedding anniversary.

My gaze lingerson Oliver sleeping, taking in every detail of his handsome face. His dark hair is tousled on the pillow, and his lips are slightly parted as he breathes softly. I can't help but smile as I think about how perfect he is. Not only is he incredibly handsome, but he is also considerate and thoughtful in everything he does.

He was the first man I slept with after Brian’s murder. Date six is when I finally worked up the courage to show him my scars. I didn’t have to worry about that with the four dates I went on with the other guys because we never made it past the first date. I was scared he would be turned off and not want me when he saw them, but he wasn’t. He was kind, gentle, and caring. He made me feel comfortable to the point I forgot about them.

He. Is. My. Perfect. Man.

Chapter Five

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