Page 59 of The Rejected Wife

You’d think I’d get used to seeing them together, but each time I do, it brings home how lucky they are to have each other. And how alone I am…No. Nope. Not happening. Not going there.I begin to tidy up the toys and put them away, mainly so I don’t have to look at him.

“Leave it; you’ve had a long day, as well,” he rumbles. That gruff voice of his never fails to pinch my nerve endings and sensitize every millimeter of my skin. Normally, I’d protest, but I’m so aware of him, it’s best I get out of here. Fast.

I straighten and manage to meet his eyes with what I hope is a composed look. “Thank you. I do believe I’ll take you up on that offer.” I walk toward the doorway. “Have a good evening.”

He seems on the verge of saying something, but to my relief, he doesn’t. He steps aside. With a nod at him, and after blowing a kiss at Serene, I skitter out of there.

* * *

Back in my little apartment over the garage, I pour myself a glass of wine, then inhale it. Splashing some more of the ruby red liquid into my glass, I place it on the small table separating the kitchen area from the living room. It’s such a small space; it’s only a few steps to the refrigerator. I open it and survey the contents. I’m not very hungry—probably because my appetite of a different kind has been roused. I blow out a breath. Enough. I have to stop thinking of Tyler.

I should be grateful to have a roof over my head. With the money he’s already paid me, I’ve paid down my credit card debt and begun to pay off my student loans, too. All in all, I’m in a much better space than before

I came to work for him… Except, now that I see him every day, I miss him so much. Most nights, I dream about how it was to kiss him, how it felt to have his lips on me, and his tongue inside me, and his fingers playing me like I was his favorite musical instrument. Grr! All that work I put in, trying to forget him, was in vain. It’s as if I parked the memories somewhere deep inside, and now, they insist on parading across my brain like a movie every time I closed my eyes. I shake my head, count back from ten.I’m not falling apart—I’m rearranging into someone stronger.No idea where I read that, but it helps me feel a little more in control. First things first, I need to eat a little something. It’ll help me feel better.

I look at the ingredients I have in the refrigerator and navigate to my favorite website, where I can key them in and get suggestions for what to make for dinner. When I look at the time next, nearly an hour has passed. Damn. I got sidetracked going on my social media feeds and checking my email. And I’m no closer to finding a recipe I like. Guess I’ll have to fall back on something I’ve made before.

I push my phone aside. Then head to the refrigerator and pull out the Halloumi cheese, along with the vegetables I need for a salad. I slice the cheese into half-inch thick pieces, heat a pan over the flame, add the olive oil to the pan, then place the Halloumi slices in the pan.

While they begin to fry, I turn to the chopping board and begin to chop the cucumber, then move onto the tomato. I lose myself in the Zen of the repetitive actions. A cucumber-tomato-mint salad will be refreshing and—I cough. Damn, I forgot about the Halloumi. It has a high protein content, and I left it too long in the pan. The cheese is charred, and smoke pours from the pieces. Even as I reach for the pan, one of the pieces catches fire. From somewhere above me, the fire alarm begins to blare.

“Oh, my God!” The noise is so loud, my ears ring. I grab the pan and thrust it into the sink. Then I open the tap, and when water hits the pan, it sizzles. And even more smoke bellows from it. Jesus. I can’t believe one small hunk of cheese could cause so much smoke to arise. I cough again, grab the tea towel, and look around, trying to spot the smoke alarm. It’s too high to reach.

I was hoping to fan the air in front of it to try to get it to shut off, but I guess that’s not going to happen. With streaming eyes, I stumble to the window. I throw it open, shove my head out, gulping in air. My lungs burn. My eyes won’t stop tearing. I keep fanning the smoke toward the window, when the door to the apartment crashes open. I look over my shoulder and, through my tears, watch Tyler burst in. My jaw drops.

“Are you okay?” He barrels across the living room and toward the kitchen area. Barefoot. Shirtless. Wearing nothing but gray sweats that hang low on his hips, clinging to that sharp V of muscle that disappears beneath the waistband.

My gaze lowers before I can stop myself. That body—God. That chest. Those abs. That line of sweat gliding down between his pecs like a lover’s kiss. My throat closes. My breath catches. And it’s nothing to do with the smoke in the room, which is already fading, thanks to the open window.

I haven’t seen his sculpted chest since that night at his penthouse. But I’ve remembered. My body has never forgotten. That eight-pack has starred in so many of my dreams, I’ve woken up tangled in sheets and soaked through my panties more times than I care to admit.

And now he’s here. Real. Breathing hard. His whole body carved from heat and tension and fear.

I look up—and my stomach drops.

His face is pinched tight, his jaw clenched, his gaze frantic. There’s something wild in his eyes. Something raw. Fierce. Terrifyingly tender. Like he thought—no, knew—he was about to lose me.

Oh God.

He saw the smoke. Heard the fire alarm.

He thought the apartment was burning. He thought I was inside.

“I’m fine, the pan caught fire?—”

I don’t get to finish.

Because he’s rounded the table, stepped up to me, and grabbed me around my waist.

I’m stunned. My mouth falls open. I don’t even protest. I just hold onto him, every muscle in his body coiled with tension, every inch of him wrapped around me like I’m his most precious possession.

He lifts me off my feet like I weigh nothing. Then pivots and thunders out of there—back across the living room floor, out the front door, and down the steps leading to the garden. I’m so taken aback; my mouth hangs open. I’m too shocked to even protest.

I merely hold onto his massive shoulder as he reaches the bottom most step, jumps onto the lawn, and begins to race across it.

Only then do my brain cells begin to function. “Stop, Tyler. What’s wrong with you?”

“Fire. The apartment was on fire,” he rasps through gritted teeth.

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