Page 5 of Rebound

She tries to pull her hand from mine, but I tighten my grip, making it impossible for her to break free. My dick is still doing the thinking, and he’s enjoying this—the physical contact, the power play, the way her chest rises and falls as she breathes more heavily. If we were alone, she’d walk out—but here? Here, she’s stuck. Here, I have a little power, and I decide to use it. I want to confuse her, to surprise her. Hell, let’s be honest—I want to play with her.

I slide my free arm around her shoulder. “That being said, darling wife, this dress could persuade me otherwise. I love this color on you,” I murmur. “But I’d probably love this dress even more off you. It’d look great on the men’s room floor.”

Her breath catches, and the skin of her décolletage turns the faintest shade of pink. She wants to tell me to go to hell, but we both keep up our smiles, both putting on the show the world expects of us.

“I’d rather die than share a bed with you again too,” she murmurs. “Go find one of your little whores—one of your little playthings—if that’s what you want. I’ll even lend them the dress if it helps get you off.”

Furious, I drop her hand like it’s a dead animal. Where the fuck did that come from? I don’t have little whores, and I don’t play with other women. In the twenty-one years since we started dating, I have never once cheated on Amber. She knows that… Doesn’t she? Amber and I may not have made love for over six months, but I would never cheat.

No, I think bitterly, scratch that—we haven’t “made love” in well over a decade. There’s been angry sex, screwing each other into silence after fights, and we’re occasionally overcome by the physical attraction that never seems to fade between us. But our furious, fantastic fucking is always followed by one of us—usually Amber—retreating, leaving us both full of regret and self-loathing. I imagine she scrubs herself clean in the shower while chastising herself for being weak. Maybe she writes “I Must Not Sleep with My Husband” a hundred times in one of the notebooks she keeps with her at all times.

Whatever she does, it’s been working, because even that accidental contact hasn’t happened recently. We have stuck to our own rooms, our own sections of the too-big townhouse we share. Stuck to our own lives. None of this is new, though, so why would she think I’d cheat on her now? Or is she screwing with me? Fuck. It’s so hard to tell with her. I course correct my frown back into a smile.

“Oh my!” Amber shuffles slightly farther away from me. She’s talking more loudly now, happy to be overheard gushing. “Look at the way Mitchell is gazing at her. Right there, that’s what a recipe for love looks like.”

An older woman sitting in the row in front of us turns and smiles, as tearfully emotional about the scene playing out before us as Amber pretends to be.

And this right here, I think as I try not to be provoked by her giving me the cold shoulder, is what a recipe for love looks like when you add one more ingredient: a sprinkle of hate.

ChapterThree

AMBER

My husband is, to use a technical term, hotter than a solar flare. He’s tall and broad-shouldered and in terrific shape, his dark hair and beard perfectly well-groomed. He dresses impeccably and has a big smile that can melt a woman’s heart at twenty paces and her underwear at ten. He is smooth, sophisticated, and stylishly put together—the very definition of high-society sex appeal.

Despite all that surface charm, it’s actually his eyes that do it for me. They always have, ever since the first day we met. An unusual shade of deep gray, Elijah’s eyes have a touch of the wild to them that is a world away from business meetings and boardrooms. When he’s annoyed or just plain pissed, they shine with a hint of ferocity that never fails to make my heart beat faster. And as he is usually annoyed or just plain pissed when I’m nearby, that tends to happen way too often for comfort. My poor heart becomes quite exhausted by it all.

I’m avoiding meeting his gaze for exactly that reason. I’ve pushed and prodded and provoked, and I’ve gotten a sick thrill out of unbalancing him. Was it worth it? I glance at him from beneath my lashes and decide that it wasn’t. He doesn’t even look angry anymore. His whole face lit up with his smile when he watched Elodie walk down the aisle, genuine warmth infused in his expression. Against all odds, he remains a romantic. Now, though, he looks tense and drained, and that’s all thanks to yours truly. I really am the gift that keeps on giving.

He doesn’t deserve this. I don’t deserve this. Yet neither of us seems to know how to fix it nor has the guts to walk away. It’s like we’re locked in this endless cycle of hell.

We are sitting together at the reception, although “together” might be a stretch. We are in close physical proximity, but as ever, the distance between us is vast and bleak. I can’t even remember the last time either of us tried to cross that void. Him moving into his own bedroom six months ago was the final nail in that coffin, taking away the last scrap of intimacy between us. Not that a lot happened in our shared bed—but at least we were in the same space. At least some form of intimacy was possible. Now, we lead increasingly separate lives, and it’s only at events like this that we’re forced to share the same air.

A waiter approaches, smiling nervously over his big silver tray. “Wine, madam?” he asks. The poor kid looks terrified.

“Yes, please,” I reply, and his hand shakes as he passes me the glass. “First day?”

“Um, yeah.” He offers a sheepish grin. “That obvious?”

“Not at all. Lucky guess. You’re doing great—and don’t worry, it’ll get easier. Plus, before long everyone will be so drunk they won’t care anyway.”

A flicker of surprise dances across Elijah’s face as the boy leaves.

“What? I can’t be nice?”

“Not in my experience, no,” he says, before going back to his phone. He’s been glued to the damn thing since the reception started, and I can’t say that I blame him. Maybe he’s messaging one of those mistresses I accused him of having earlier—and again, if he were, I couldn’t blame him. The unrestrained glee and optimism inherent to weddings coupled with the conversation in the car have caused me to be an even bigger bitch than usual. Yet again, his family has caused a rift between us—this time without even being present. I wish I could feel as neutral on the inside as I look on the outside, but I can’t. Pain and rejection are like a plague of locusts, landing on my exposed nerves and devouring me whole.

I sip my wine and tap my toes along to the music. The swing band version of “No Diggity” is working oddly well. We used to jam to this song at parties in college, singing along with our friends as we danced around in a big drunken circle. That was a million years ago, but I wonder if he remembers too. If he does, there’s no sign of it on his face. No sign of much on his face at all. He has gone to ground, switched off. Left the field of play.

With my expression carefully schooled in my practiced wedding smile, I wave to people I know and have brief conversations with anyone who stops by our table. I’m playing my role to perfection. That is what is expected, and on this occasion, it’s also what is right—it wouldn’t be fair to drag poor Elodie down with my bitterness on the happiest day of her life. At least the happiest day of her life until a few years down the line when her pals organize the traditional male stripper–strewn divorce party. Ha. Thoughts like that are exactly why I have to pretend.

Elijah has barely touched his drink and hasn’t eaten. I notice these things because I notice everything about him, but I don’t comment. He’s a grown man, and I am very much not his mother. His tie is tugged down a little and his long fingers are flying over the phone keyboard. Crap, what if he actuallyismessaging another woman? I didn’t mean it when I told him to go play with someone else. The thought of it alone is enough to break me, even if I would never let him see that.

I briefly wonder what would happen if I leaned over and took that phone from his grip. If I tangled my hands in his thick hair, looked up into his eyes, and invited him in. Would he welcome it? Would he pull me onto his lap and kiss me the way he used to, all possessive tongue and hot lips and big hands roaming my body? Or would he be horrified and push me away before returning to his phone?

It doesn’t matter. I’ll never do any such thing. The whole idea is ludicrous. I’m not a child anymore, and I gave up on silly dreams a long time ago.

“I’m just messaging Mason about work,” he says, as though sensing my scrutiny. “They’ve landed in London.”

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