Page 4 of Fault Lines
“I did.”
Pause. A glance. “She’s just efficient, does what she needs to do. I’ll ask her about it in the morning. Not a big deal.”
A sourness twisted in my gut, almost bitter. “Is she pretty?”
That finally drew a laugh, a weary half-grin. “Is my beautiful wife jealous?”
“Not jealous,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Just… concerned. Should I be?”
He stepped close, arms wrapping around me. “I love you. None of that matters.” His lips brushed my hair, the words warm but not quite enough to settle the ache.
I nodded, too tired to argue. It was easier this way. We finished up, the clatter of plates and silverware the only noise. We got ready for bed, both pretending that nothing was wrong. Maybe tomorrow there would be answers—or more questions.
In the dark, I closed my eyes and let the worries swirl away, just for a little while. Maybe if I wished hard enough, everything would be fine. Maybe I could sleep until the sun came up, and maybe in the morning, Cam would still be here. Maybe I’d finally get the truth.
But for now, it was enough just to pretend.
Chapter Two
The morning arrived with lances of sunlight, jabbing through the half-drawn blinds to dapple the tangled sheets. Cam’s side of the bed was already abandoned, only a faint impression of warmth left behind and sheets wound around my hips like the memory of a touch. My head pounded with the dull complaint of too much cheap wine the night before, and my tongue felt thick, my entire mouth stale as if I’d chewed a wad of cotton overnight.
I could hear the shower running from the master bath, the muted hiss tapping a steady rhythm. That was Cam’s way: out of bed before me, quick jog, then a shower. He’d towel off, hair dripping, then wander out for his coffee—which I always had waiting. His phone rested on the nightstand, jittering with a soft buzz. I flopped to my side and tried to blink away the fog, peeking at the screen: a text, right after six in the morning. Curiosity nudged me. I stretched for it, but the lock screen blinked irritably, needing a password.
Lacey, the screen read in bold letters. His assistant. Probably just a last-minute change at work; nothing dramatic. Except, why so early? My heartbeat skipped strangely as I eased myself up and tiptoed toward the door, trailing my husband’s oversized slippers.
Cam was in the doorway, toweling himself briskly, steam swirling around his shoulders and chest. He had another towelslung low on his hips, water trickling down his neck. He barely glanced at me. “What are you doing?”
“You got a text,” I said, doing my best to keep my voice even. “When did your phone start needing a password?”
He grinned sheepishly, the lines at the corners of his mouth deepening. “We had a bunch of break-ins at the building last week. They said to secure everything. My whole life is on there, you know? Can’t be too careful.” He reached for the phone, and I handed it over, my fingers brushing his for a split second.
He checked it, shrugged, and pocketed it again. “Nothing important. Lacey gets nervous about schedules. I’ll fix it at work.”
I tried to leave it at that, but my next words stuck a little. “Could we maybe have a date night tomorrow? Saturday? It’s been forever since we did anything just the two of us.”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise as he buttoned his crisp shirt, every move so smooth I could almost fall for him all over again. The fabric stretched across his chest, pulling just slightly over muscle and bone. My cheeks felt hot, but I kept talking.
“I’ve got a pile of work, but I can clear my schedule for my girl,” he said after a moment. “Dinner and a movie?”
I couldn’t help the way my grin nearly split my face. “Perfect. I’ll plan something.”
He laughed, slipping into his sneakers. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please!” I scrambled after him, tripping on the sheets at my feet, feeling a hint of hope spark to life.
∞∞∞
The job hunt had turned into a long, endless string of ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ Too qualified, not qualified enough, not the rightfit. I’d tried everywhere: offices, stores, anything. Every rejection left the word ‘unwanted’ stamped a little deeper on my resume.
I came out of a fancy law office, the kind with marble floors and too-bright lights, feeling smaller than ever. The sidewalk was already shimmering with heat, storefronts lined tidy along the block, mannequins blank-faced and unwelcoming.
Something bright caught my eye. In the window, an ancient typewriter gleamed, its brass body and green glass keys so beautiful I almost pressed my nose to the glass. The sign above it read Timeless Treasures. I couldn’t help but step inside.
A bell above the door jingled, and suddenly I was wrapped in the cozy scent of roasted coffee and dusty, sun-warmed paper. The wood floor moaned under every careful step. Shelves towered overhead, full of battered novels. Here and there, clocks ticked in sync, their brass hands marking quiet hours. I saw china teacups and faded armchairs tucked into shadowy nooks.
I ran my fingers across the spines of weathered books, breathing in old stories and wood polish. At the back, a sign pointed ‘Fantasy’ and I drifted there, drawn to covers splashed with dragons and swirling fog and silver-edged swords. Two books called to me—a deep blue one with gold script, another covered in crushed green velvet—and I clutched them close.
“Hi there, young lady,” a voice called out. I turned and found a gentle-faced man smiling at me from behind the counter. Pale silver hair, skin creased kindly. He looked about seventy, but his eyes were bright and quick.
