Page 38 of Happy Wife

I need a favor. Are you free?

My phone lit up with a text from Will.

He was being polite. He knew I was free because I was off from work today, and he had left me in his bed less than an hour ago to head up to the office. We had been dating for three months, and I barely went home anymore. So the fact that I had no intention of leaving his house, let alone his bed, wouldn’t have caught him by surprise.

9:22a.m.

Sorry. I have a packed schedule of catnapping.

9:27a.m.

I left my briefcase on my desk. Can you bring it up to the office?

Will’s office. The two-story brick building was off Park Avenue, and in a place deeply in love with its own history, it was no accident that Fritz and Will’s office held a prime spot on WinterPark’s historical registry. I had seen it a zillion times, but I had never actually set foot in the place.

Maybe that was why the idea of strolling into his office with a briefcase felt like more than a harmless errand. Maybe that was also why the hairs on the back of my neck stood up just a little when I responded:

9:29a.m.

Sure. Give me 10 minutes.

Even as I hit send, I knew ten minutes was not enough time to make myself sufficiently presentable to walk into Will’s office.

While I slept at his place most nights, there had been no romantic overtures about cohabitation—it had been only three months after all. So every few days, I quietly rounded up any clothes that had accumulated at Will’s place and took them home.

This was me hedging my bets. This was me playing “the cool girl.” The one who doesn’t push a guy into a serious commitment too early. This was me…setting myself up to wear last night’s sequin top and jeans to his office.

Fuck.

I looked down at the white T-shirt I had slept in. It was his, but if I knotted it at the waist, it didn’t look terribly oversize. I pulled my jeans on, deciding it was better to look casual than sparkly, and silently willed his office to be vacant as I hopped in my car with his errant briefcase.

After parking, I walked timidly toward the building and peered through the window from the sidewalk. One look at the hum of activity inside told me I was not going to get my wish of slipping in unseen, so I pulled out my phone and texted Will.

9:44a.m.

I’m outside, but I’m wearing your clothes. Probably better you come out to grab your briefcase.

I was waiting for a response when a male voice broke my concentration.

“Can I help you with something?” the voice boomed, infused with authority and somehow a touch of charm.

I recognized the character approaching me from photos in Will’s home office and the advertisements for the firm. It was his partner, Fritz—a Winter Park institution. One look at him telegraphed a radioactive variant of privilege and an air of invincibility—gilded Teflon—like he could dodge DUIs as easily as sexual assault accusations with a bought-and-paid-for impunity.

“I’m waiting for someone.” I tried to make my tone as neutral as possible.

He thumbed toward the building. “Someone in there? I can help. I own the place.”

Bully for you.

I bit my tongue to avoid being rude. “It’s nice.”

“You want a tour?” He took a step in my direction with a glint in his eye. I shifted uneasily.

The front door of the office pushed open, and Will exited as if on cue. “Babe.” His face broke wide into a smile.

“Babe?” Fritz frowned and looked between the two of us.

Will stepped past him to draw me in and plant a full kiss on my lips. It was a kiss that was more territorial than romantic. A staking of claim. And under Fritz’s leering gaze, I was more than happy to be claimed.

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