Page 13 of Trashy Affair Duet

“So what made you go into business instead?”

“My mom, I guess. She hated how much I had my nose stuck in a book. Pretty much shot that dream down the drain from the get-go. She wanted me to be more like Brit. Model material, basically.” She pauses, shaking her head. “That’s my sister. Sorry, I guess I’m rambling.”

“Ramble away. I don’t think we’re going anywhere for a while.”

“Very true,” she says with a laugh. “I guess by the time I hit college, I went for practicality instead. Either way, my mom wasn’t happy with my decision.”

I can relate to the complexities of family all too well. I wouldn’t be married and running a corporation right now if it hadn’t been for the pressure my father put on me for as long as I can remember.

“What do you do for a living?” she asks a few moments later. “Wait, let me guess.” She narrows her eyes, studying me. “I’m picturing you in a business suit, sitting in one of those swanky high-rise buildings. Am I close?”

“You’re not far off. I run a company, and I also have a background in architecture.”

Surprise tugs her brows toward her hairline. “Wow. I’m impressed. I don’t think I’ve ever met an architect before. What kind of buildings do you design?”

“Hotels. But I’m not part of the design team anymore.” Not since taking on the responsibility of CEO, that is. “I work on blueprints.” Clinging to the anonymity between Jules and me, I squeeze her hand in a dick-like move, hoping to distract her from further questioning. “Feeling better now?”

She nods, but her attention veers to our laced hands again. Reluctantly, I untangle our fingers and put some space between us. But it’s too late. Her warm eyes tell me what she doesn’t say.

It isn’t only turbulence that has her strung. Sexual tension buzzes between us, growing with each mile through the air, with every minute we sit close together talking.

Touching.

I think about the possibility that Monica isn’t the only one at fault here. When was the last time we had sex? Definitely before she bought that new comforter I’d spotted in the photo—the one she’d fornicated on top of with some other man.

And the last time we made love? Even longer. There’s a difference, and I can’t remember the last time we connected with genuine intimacy. Work keeps me busy. Expansion has been great for the company, but maybe not so much for my marriage, since we’ve shared a bed but little else for the last few months.

For the first time since laying eyes on that photo, I ask myself a difficult question.

Did I push her into it?

I give myself a mental kick. I’m not the one who put a lock on our sex life. I don’t know why she’s been so cold and distant lately, but it’s time to rip off the Band-Aid. Our marriage has been in trouble for a while, and I’ve been too busy—too careless—to take serious notice.

Until that damn photo blasted my phone. Sharp pain pierces my chest at the thought. This isn’t what I imagined when I married her.

“Now I think I’m the one who needs to ask if you are okay.” Jules’ voice pulls me from the dark place I’d tumbled into.

Perceptive, indeed.

“I’m fine,” I say, leaving it at that.

She shifts in her seat and faces me, propping herself against the arm of her chair. “What’s your favorite thing about Seattle?”

I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling pent-up tension. “I’m not sure I could narrow it down to just one thing.”

“Top three then.”

“It’s lively. People are always on the move, and you can get around downtown without a car.”

“What else?”

“Coffee. Need I say more?”

“I don’t drink coffee. I’m more of a tea person.”

“Jules, this is very distressing news. Seattle is crying right now.”

“Hey, don’t blame the rain on me,” she says with a laugh, and I can’t help but smile. “Okay, tell me one last favorite thing.”

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