Isn’t that why he got a new name? To signify a new start?
I start typing, We can talk later, but I don’t like the way you’re abusive to me. Then I hit send.
I wouldn’t be so “abusive” if you weren’t trying to screw me! he responds. Not even a second passes before another message arrives. When?
Don’t know yet.
Pick a time when your husband’s not going to be around.
I scowl at that. Why?
It’s important.
How about Monday at ten? Elliot almost always has conference calls Monday morning.
Damn it. I can’t leave for long then.
Is it going to take a while? I can’t get away otherwise if you really want me to not let Elliot know. I want Dennis to say fuck it and not bother. I don’t really want to be reminded of my past. We didn’t have the healthiest relationship, to put it kindly.
There’s Starbucks a block away from the office, he responds. That work?
Not really, but I’m afraid he won’t stop texting until I see him. If it takes a few minutes of my time, fine. Let him be reassured that I’m not trying to ruin what he has. I don’t wish anybody from Lincoln City any ill. Even though I don’t like the way they treated me and Nonny after our parents’ death, I can also understand why they were so angry. I can’t be sure that I would’ve acted more nobly.
Fine, I type.
Just as I hit send, the door opens and Elliot walks in.
His clothes are the same ones from last night—a dove-gray shirt and black slacks—only they’re rumpled now. His dark hair is mussed, like it’s had fingers tunneled into it—his or the brunette’s? I can’t tell. An ugly feeling unfurls in the pit of my belly, but I rein it in as viciously as I can.
Tight lines bracket his mouth, but that doesn’t detract from its sensual fullness. Dark stubble shadows his strong jaw.
It doesn’t matter what he’s wearing or how unhappy I am with him. The man is simply gorgeous. No, not just gorgeous. That would be his brother Ryder. Elliot radiates a sexual magnetism that short circuits my brain and heats me from the inside out. Whenever he looks at me, I feel like I’m melting while a fine electric charge ripples across my skin.
I’ve never hated his effect on me more than now. Why couldn’t he just be some disgusting asshole?
Wordlessly, he grabs a cup of coffee. Tired lines crinkle around his dark eyes. In spite of myself, I allow myself to feel concerned.
“Where were you last night?” I ask, my tone neutral.
“At Ryder’s.”
I start to cross my arms defensively then stop. I haven’t done anything wrong. “Who was the woman?”
He takes a sip from his mug, his dark gaze watching me over the rim. Wariness fleets through his eyes, as though he’s regarding a dog of uncertain temper. “Nobody you need to concern yourself with.”
His words are like a slap, and I feel my face turn red. If he wanted to make it clear what a temporary fixture I am in his life, he couldn’t have done a better job. But until the year is up, I am his wife. “I’m going to ask again. Who is Annabelle Underhill?”
“Nobody.” He places his mug in the kitchen sink.
“Really?” And I’m the queen of Egypt. “Then why won’t you call me by my name?”
His face impassive, he doesn’t answer.
His calmness only fuels my anger. “Who’s Gigi?”
“Just a name I like.”
“I don’t like it. I want you to call me Annabelle.”