Page 4 of The Wrong Husband
The cat’s back leg slips.
A collective gasp breaks the morning quiet.
The cat lets out another desperate cry and scrabbles for balance as the branch wobbles.
That’s when he appears.
3
Phoenix
Tall. Commanding. He hijacks my attention like he’s a force of nature.
I take in the battered leather jacket that clings to the breadth of his shoulders, the T-shirt which strains the width of his chest.
His blue jeans, too, have seen better days. Worn at the knees, pulled apart over those powerful thighs, between which is the unmissable outline of his dick.Inappropriate. Don’t stare at his crotch. So, what if he’s packing?Guess that explains the confidence radiating from him.
He has scuffed leather boots—big boots. Size thirteen? Maybe fourteen? My gaze, once again, swings back to the space between his thighs. The zipper is tight and stretched and, surely, that tent is more substantial than before?
My breathing grows rough. My nipples under my T-shirt tighten into points of need. I’m aware, I’m close to panting, and I can’t understand it. Sure, he’s good-looking. More than good-looking. And yes, there’s something about him that’s vital. Andreal. And commands attention. And he's charismatic. But he’s only a man. A man who moves so fast his feet don’t seem to touch the ground. He reaches the tree, jumps up and grabs a branch which must be at least seven feet above.
A gasp runs through the crowd.
He pulls himself up with a flex of his biceps and deltoids that would do an anatomy chart proud. The kinetic coordination is flawless—pectorals, latissimus dorsi, and core engaging in a fluid motion. Like a real-life vigilante sprung straight from a comic book panel.
Sweat breaks out on my brow. Moisture springs to life between my legs. I squeeze my thighs, not that it has any effect on the yawning emptiness I’m suddenly aware of between them.
Someone calls out, “Careful,” but he doesn’t hesitate.
He climbs with unhurried strength, scaling the limbs of the tree like he’s done it a hundred times. The cat hisses, tail fluffed, her tiny body braced and trembling.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. He grasps the trunk of the tree and extends a hand, slowly, palm-up.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he rumbles. Then, quieter, like a promise, “Good girl.”
His voice rakes over me like silk over gravel. It’s low. Rough. Heat-soaked. The kind of voice that curls around the base of your spine and plants roots.
I shiver. Something sparks low in my belly. Something wild and feminine and completely irrational. Because… Why is my body responding to those words like they were meant for me?
Ding-ding-ding.New level of pathetic, unlocked.
He reaches for the cat. She freezes—then lets him lift her into the crook of his arm, nuzzling into his chest with a final, plaintive mew.
He climbs down just as smoothly—one-handed, if you can believe it! This man defies gravity; he bends it to his will, as if it’s a mere inconvenience. It has no effect on his mission.
His boots land on the ground with a thud. The crowd claps. The woman rushes forward, tears in her eyes, and takes the cat from his arms. “Thank you, thank you—she’s never done that before.”
He nods. No flourish. No smugness.
And then he turns.
He wears sunglasses and a black baseball cap pulled low, casting half his face in shadow—but there’s no hiding the hard lines beneath. A stubbled jaw cut from stone. Lips unsmiling. The cords of his neck stand out in relief, tension shearing through the tissue like taut surgical wire.
His shoulders are massive—broad enough to carry the weight of the world without flinching. And that jacket, scuffed and worn, clings to a body built not just to break rules, but to break through walls. To break hearts.
Something in my chest tightens. My heartbeat speeds up.
Diagnosis: acute emotional arrhythmia. Elevated pulse, shallow breathing, catastrophic loss of rational thought. Prognosis: not good.
