Page 63 of Fault Lines
He hadn’t traveled in a while—but even when he had, it was never weekends. My mind flashed to him in some hotel suite with another woman, the firelight from the cabin, passion in places I couldn’t see.
He must’ve seen it on my face, because he shook his head with a little frown. “No, baby, don’t do that. It’s work, I swear. Some big shots we merged with want a weekend in Las Vegas for some gambling.”
I just held his gaze.
“You can gamble any time,” I pointed out.
“One of the guys has a nephew eloping Sunday. He wants to be at the wedding, so everyone agreed to meet for dinner at their casino Saturday night. The wedding is the next morning, then plenty of time for everything else. I’m leaving Friday, right after work.”
“You’re not going for a bachelor party or anything?” I asked.
He laughed, a tired, dismissive sound. “No, I don’t even know the nephew. Anyway, you know I wouldn’t do anything outside our box. I promised. You have to trust me.”
I wanted to. But I remembered the texting. “You were texting outside the box,” I reminded him.
He rolled his eyes. “You never set a rule about that. Still, it was wrong, especially with you sitting right there. I stopped, and I stopped seeing her, just like you wanted.”
He reached out, his palm warm on my cheek. “I’m doing what I can to make this work for you.”
“Everything except stopping,” I said, staring at him.
He dropped his hand, his face stormy. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”
“Like what?” I demanded. “Like a woman who wants her husband to herself? That’s not exactly rare, Cam!”
He grabbed his coat and keys, the front door slamming after him with a sharp crack.
I gathered up the muffins and followed suit, relieved by the excuse to leave.
Nate was already behind the counter at the bookstore when I walked in.
“Are those for me?” he said, nodding at the basket.
“And Mr. Porter,” I replied, setting it down.
Nate immediately took one and bit into it, muffin crumbs everywhere. “Pops is out today,” he managed to say, still chewing.
“Again?” I leaned on the counter. It didn’t seem like Mr. Porter to bail so much. “He still not feeling well?”
Nate shook his head. “He’s finally at the doctor getting checked out. They’re doing some tests, trying to figure out what’s wrong.”
“That’s good,” I said, genuinely relieved. “I hope they find something they can help with. I feel bad for him.”
“Me too. He’s stubborn—it’s taken forever to get him to go. I’ve always been close to him.” Nate picked at the counter with a rag I’d used yesterday.
“You have?” I said, watching him. “More than your own dad?”
He nodded, eyes on the rag. “Yeah. He practically raised me. My real dad was… well, not around.”
“Was? Did he pass away?” I asked, then immediately second-guessed myself. “Sorry if that’s rude.”
“It’s fine.” He said it casually. “My mom’s gone, but Dad’s in prison. I said ‘was’ because I don’t think of him as my dad anymore.”
“Would it be too much to ask why?”
He glanced at me, unreadable, then shrugged. “Murder.”
I stared, my mind drawing a blank. I wanted to ask a thousand things, but the air went tight and before I could form any words the door opened and a group of energetic ladies came in, talking over each other about a local author we were about to do an event for.
