Tryst

Still, I would have rather been caught up with my feelings about me and my husband’s potential alternative lifestyle rather than what was really eating me up inside. I didn’t want to see Ransom, which was pretty easy to achieve considering the size of the compound, yet I missed him. I missed him like he was a million miles away rather than mere yards down the hall. I missed him like he had been my best friend for years and we talked every day. I missed him like he was mine. And none of those reasons made a lick of sense, but that didn’t keep me from wanting them to be true.

I can’t deny that I’m worried for him. Well, worried for me. Ever since Justice revealed that there were singles here that were down for pretty much anything, I’ve been a nervous wreck about what he could be getting into—quite literally—now that I’m not in the picture. I mean, let’s be honest, I was never in the picture. He was still sleeping with women before and after me, and rightfully so. But I don’t need to know about it. I don’t need it flaunted in my face, wearing a goofy, satisfied grin and messy, just-fucked hair.

Because of all the random ridiculousness swirling in my head, I’ve been bitchier than usual. Tucker’s been trying everything—suggesting yoga, classes, movies, even a playful couple’s game night—but I’ve shot him down at every turn, feigning work situations that needed my immediate attention, or—you guessed it—cramps. And every time, he’s shrugged his shoulders and taken it like the gentleman that he is, even bringing me pain meds on occasion.

I stand out on our balcony, overlooking the pool area where nearly a dozen couples splash around and mingle jovially. They all look so normal, so happy. You’d never guess that one is a state senator who likes to get fucked in the ass while eating his wife’s pussy. Or one is a Food Network TV personality who likes to be shackled and blindfolded while her husband whips her until her skin is raw then force-feeds her decadent cakes.

I watch these people and I both envy and loathe them for being able to accept who and what they are, and have the strength to act on it. I thought sleeping with Ransom was my way of owning my sexuality. A way for me to feel empowered by letting another man screw me into the mattress in a haze of violent passion. It was my way of taking back control—giving the finger to the sick fuck who stole from me. Yet, here we are, more than a decade later, and he’s still taking from me. And I’m letting him.

I decide that I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep letting my bullshit hang-ups affect my marriage. It isn’t Tucker’s baggage to carry, yet I keep placing it on his shoulders. And being the man that he is, he takes it without complaint.

I love him. God, I love him. And there will never be another man better than him. There will never be another man who will put up with my mood swings and my bickering and my sexual complications. There will never be a man who was born to be a father, yet has sacrificed that need within him for the woman he loves. I’ll never find a man who loves me harder and fiercer than he does. And if there is something that I can do to show him just an inkling of the gratitude I feel for him, then it’s my duty as a wife to do it.

I go back inside my room and gather the folder containing the questio

I find that he isn’t in when I pop my head in so I place the documents inside a sealed envelope and leave it on his desk with his name on it. I’m not worried about anyone nabbing the file. After what I saw in that dark den of sin, I have enough dirt to start a dust storm on Mars. We’re all in the same boat here, and I feel oddly confident that these walls are pretty silent after last year’s debacle.

I’m turning back to my room, deep in thought about the decision I’ve just made, and contemplating where we go from here, when I nearly take someone out while rounding the corner.

“Oh! Excuse me,” I stammer, but I’m only met with a deep, throaty chuckle.

Of course. Of course, this would happen now.

“Heidi,” Ransom smiles, one corner of his mouth reaching higher than the other.

“Ransom. Hi.” I clear my throat and touch my hair nervously. “I hope all is well. Enjoying your stay here?”

He nods. “I am. Thank you.”

I take in what he’s wearing right now—board shorts, flip-flops, and a sleeveless tank. There’s a towel draped over one arm, and a very familiar navy blue robe on the other.

“Going for a swim?” I ask, trying to school my voice into something that resembles nonchalance.

“That’s the plan. I heard there was a spa around here with an indoor pool and a couple different specialty rooms. Thought I’d check them out. Should be fun.”

My mouth drops and my eyes grow in size. I mean to respond but no sound comes out. Not even a peep.

Ransom is going to the spa. And he’s got that terry cloth robe with the Oasis insignia on it. It could be i

Chapter Twenty-four

Things are in motion.

The contracts have been approved. The questio

When I arrive, he doesn’t look angry or a

“I wanted to ask you something, and I need you to be totally honest with me,” he says as soon as I sit down, not even bothering with pleasantries. “Do you have feelings for Ransom?”

I almost choke on my own saliva, so completely caught off guard by his candid inquiry. “What? Why do you ask that?”

“Because I need to know before we go any further. I need to know that your heart will be in this one hundred percent.” He leans forward, digging his elbows into the tops of his knees and steeples his fingers in front of a proud, prominent chin smattered with a thin dusting of stubble. “So tell me, Heidi . . . Is there something there with him? Other than physical attraction?”

I think about what he’s asking me, taking a beat to let the question permeate my initial, guarded reaction. Do I care for Ransom? Well, of course I care about him. He’s my client. And I’m not so cold that I can’t feel for someone I’ve shared such intimacy with. But beyond that—if sex were never that magnet between us, drawing us to each other on the most basal physical level—would I want him? Would I feel the same yearning inside me that keeps me up at night, imagining my hands are his hands as I touch myself while lying beside my sleeping husband?

I don’t know.

I don’t know what I’d feel for him.

“No,” I answer, knowing that is as close to the truth as I’m going to get. It’s necessary. It’s a lie, yet a necessary one.