Page 99 of Handsome Devil
My husband has OCD.
He needed rituals, routines, and numbers. Soothing quotes from books he’d read and loved.
And he hid it from the world. I couldn’t imagine how suffocating it was for him to keep his rituals in check at work sothat I—someone who spent almost every day with him for the past five years—wouldn’t notice.
Obsessive-compulsive disorder. It was right in front of me all along.
I now understood why he didn’t want anyone in his bed. I’d read somewhere that sometimes people living with the disorder were germophobes.
Why he checked his pocket watch every single hour.
All the times he rushed away after we fooled around to gain back his sense of control.
The way he drank his coffee in exactly nine sips. At exactly nine in the morning.
The way he wore his Valentino suit every Wednesday, the Prada every Thursday, and the golden engraved cuff links only to meetings that were at risk of being unfruitful.
He always entered rooms with his right foot. Wiped his utensils with the tablecloth at restaurants. Only drank from straws.
I knocked on the open door softly to make myself known. His head snapped up.
“Done sulking, I presume.” He clamped his teeth over the tip of his pen, looking up from his book.
“For the immediate future, yeah.” I stepped inside, ignoring his jab. “Might melt down later, though.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Of course he’d make it hard on me.
“Thank you, for…” I jerked my head to the hallway. I knew explicitly mentioning what he did would irritate him.
“Yeah.” He closed the textbook, setting it aside along with the pen. “I needed to lure you back out. Fuck knows how long this arrangement will last.”
“You do realize this is not how people think, right?” I cleared my throat.
“Have I ever claimed to be normal?”
“No.”
He spread his arms as if to say,And there you have it.
Filled with fresh compassion toward him, I let him ramble on.
And on he went.
“In lieu of a functioning daughter, I hired a certified nurse to check on your mother.” He stood up, waltzing over to his walk-in closet.
I followed him, realizing it didn’t really surprise me that Tate did this. He did a lot of thoughtful things for me when I wasn’t even paying attention.
He began undressing from his casual suit in the vast mahogany room. A freshly pressed tux hung on the mirror across from him. “You’d be happy to know your mother’s pneumonia is almost gone. The rest of her infections are being treated now. She is going to pull through.”
I knew that. I had been texting with Dr. Stultz every day, getting reports from him. He made the trip to ICU to keep me in the loop. My mother was unconscious and heavily drugged. Dr. Stultz insisted there was no point in me coming in. She wouldn’t know.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “I appreciate your concern and your thoughtfulness.”
He produced a barely human grunt.
“Where are you going?” I asked when his dress shirt sailed down his arms onto the floor. His torso was a work of the gods. Sculpted to its last inch, his abs prominent, each muscle in his arms defined and molded to perfection. A rush of heat found its way to my core, reminding me it was so very empty.
