Page 135 of The Wrong Husband
"Instead of worrying about me, why not worry about your own relationship.”
"Connor"—Phe nudges me, her eyes wide with surprise—"don’t be rude."
I blow out a breath. She’s right, of course. "Sorry about that," I say stiffly to Arthur.
He chuckles. "Getting married is already making you a better man. Which is why"—he turns his attention to Brody, who’s busyon his phone—"it’s my hope that my last single grandson will also be married before the year is out."
"Sure, Gramps." Brody raises a shoulder. “If that’s what you want."
Arthur seems taken aback. "You’re open to getting married?"
"You won’t rest easy until the lot of us have settled down. And you certainly won’t let me access my trust fund or confirm my position as CEO unless I do. So, I figure, why resist?" He turns a bland gaze on Arthur. "I plan to save us all time and step up to the altar as soon as I find someone who fits my specifications.”
I exchange glances with Nathan.
Brody is determined to pursue his ill-conceived course of action. I don't imagine anyone can talk him out of it.Stubborn bastard. He thinks he's immune to love, despite watching us fall for our soul mates.
Arthur’s face, which had been wan, is now flushed with color. His eyes gleam. Whereas, he’s been sitting back, seemingly listless, he’s fairly bouncing in his seat with excitement now.
If this was Brody’s intention, he’s achieved it. Arthur definitely looks like he’s been given a new lease of life.
Imelda spots it, too. She leans over and tucks the blanket around his knees. This, despite the fact it’s the height of summer in August, but Arthur doesn’t protest.
"You worry too much, old girl." He squeezes her arm. "What I needed to get a fresh infusion of energy was this new project."
"He means you," I mutter in Brody’s direction.
"I’m aware." He merely gives me a mild look.
"Dodged that bullet." James pretends to mop his brow.
Famous last words.But I don’t say that aloud. I have enough drama of my own to sort through. Starting with why my wife seems so tense at the thought of speaking to her parents. As if my thought conjured them, a voice calls out from the doorway.
"Phoenix?"
47
Phoenix
“Mom?”
Oh no, I thought I’d have more time before I met her.
When I catch sight of her, for a heartbeat, I’m a child again.
The girl who fell asleep to her mother’s voice reading bedtime stories. The ten-year-old who got her first period and was met with pads, a hot water bottle, and gentle reassurance.
“Phe, honey, there you are!”
A former model, she carries herself with the same grace and elegance she’s always been known for. Growing up, her poise only magnified my sense of awkwardness—my stubborn curls, my bookishness, my obsession with all things nerdy. She never judged, but I always felt like I didn’t quite match her shine.
The old insecurities surge up, clawing at my chest.
I press my palm to my sternum and tap it three times. Breathe in. Breathe out. Some of the tension eases.
Connor is watching me closely. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I take another breath and pull myself together.
