Rebound: Chapter 2

I sneak a glance to the right, risking a look at my wife. She cut me dead in the car because I pushed too hard. It was too much, too soon, and she’s now firmly locked back into full ice-queen mode.

I know from bitter experience that there will be no salvaging the day now. She’ll share space with me out of a sense of social obligation, but there will be no real warmth. No real pleasure. No real anything, in fact, apart from her contempt and her very cold shoulder.

It was probably the baby pictures. No, it was suggesting drinks with Nathan. Or maybe it was … Fuck, all of it.

She never voluntarily talks about my family, and I was both surprised and pleased. So much so that I got carried away—one photo of Luke would have been enough. She didn’t need to see my whole damn camera roll.

Now, I’m paying the price. I would have preferred it if she yelled at me, even slapped me for being an insensitive asshole. Which I kind of was—I know she doesn’t like me going on about them. If she told me to shut the fuck up, I would’ve apologized and we would have had a chance at enjoying ourselves. No such luck—she went straight for the big freeze instead.

She hasn’t spoken a word to me since we arrived. I’m dead to her, at least for now.

Despite my frustration, despite the chill, I still can’t take my eyes off her. I’m trying to play the game and stay cool, but I’m nowhere near as good at it as she is. My gaze just keeps getting drawn back to her, sucked into the black hole of her beauty. Amber is breathtaking, even more stunning now at forty than she was when I met her at nineteen.

Her caramel-blond hair is sleek and shining, her makeup perfectly accentuating her high cheekbones and delicate features. The lines of her dress hug her toned figure in that Amber-trademarked blend of class and sass. She crosses her legs, and my eyes wander down her shapely calves all the way to the sky-high heels. Nobody should be able to walk in those shoes, but she manages it with complete elegance.

Without wanting to, I vividly imagine those long legs wrapped around my ass, my wife naked apart from the glossy nude pumps, moaning in ecstasy as I slide myself inside her. Fuck! Why does this always happen? What the hell is wrong with me? For both our sakes, I need to keep my distance—that would definitely be the wise choice. And in all other aspects of life, I’m a man who makes wise choices.

When it comes to Amber, though, my dick has a habit of jumping in and making its feelings known, no matter how wise the rest of me is attempting to be. My dick is a fucking idiot. My dick needs to get with the program and treat her with the caution she warrants. Amber might look graceful and serene on the surface right now, but she has battery acid running through her veins instead of blood.

Right on cue, she slowly swivels her head to face me. Her expression leaves me in no doubt that she’s read my mind and has no interest whatsoever in engaging in any of the things I’ve spent the last few minutes thinking about. I want to look away, but that’s simply not possible with her. I’m trapped, pinned by her whiskey-brown eyes, bewitched by the dark swoop and flutter of her insanely long lashes. She puts a perfect smile on her lips, just in case anyone’s watching, and leans toward me. Her breath is deliciously warm on my neck as she whispers, “You need to stop looking at me like that, Elijah. We don’t do that anymore, remember? Not since you moved into your own bedroom.”

She purrs the words, and although their content is less than encouraging, the sound goes straight to my cock. Her mere presence makes me hot, but her message is like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head. The stark contrast between the two leaves me reeling. I hate the fact that I want her. Even more, I hate that she knows it.

Jesus fuck. I hate it all. I wish she didn’t still have so much of a hold on me. She sits there completely unaffected while I feel like I’m going crazy. I’m intoxicated by her nearness, by that simple touch of her breath, by her thigh only inches from mine. It’s not even merely physical—it would be easier to handle if it were.

It’s Amber, the whole of her. Body, mind, and tortured soul. I don’t understand how I can still love a woman who seems to hate me. Who can’t bear to be around my family and punishes me every time I make a mistake. Nathan is forever telling me to end it, to find someone else, but none of my brothers get it. If I wanted someone else, this would be easy—but she’s the one. She has always been the one.

Now that she’s said her piece, my wife looks away and clasps her hands together, sighing with apparent delight as we stand and turn to look at the bride positioned at the head of the aisle. She’s doing a terrific impression of being transfixed by the whole magical scene, and I follow her lead. We are at a wedding, after all, and we should behave appropriately. Once we’re alone, we can go back to our real relationship—one that can make the gladiator pits of Rome look like a day at the spa.

I ignore my own turmoil and focus instead on the young woman in white. Elodie Perkins practically floats toward the altar to the sound of a string quartet playing Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus.” She glows with happiness as she holds onto the arm of her father, my company’s head of finance, Harper Perkins. Her waiting groom looks speechless with wonder, his joy-filled eyes fixed firmly on his beautiful bride-to-be.

It’s a genuinely moving sight, and I feel a rush of affection for the happy couple. Affection and maybe a touch of yearning. They’re at the beginning of everything, and they have no idea how lucky they are.

Is it possible that the romantic moment has also melted the block of ice Amber keeps where her heart should be? She certainly looks swept away by the sweet scene playing out in front of us, but I know her too well to be fooled. As she’s reminded me today, the woman could win an Oscar for her ability to perform. She could just as easily be planning mass murder as admiring the bride’s dress—her expression would stay exactly the same.

I regain a little of my self-control and clasp my fingers over Amber’s. She might be the queen of faking it, but I’ve learned from the master. I lift her hand to my mouth and, ignoring her subtle resistance, place a soft kiss on her palm. From the outside, it will look as though I’m moved by the tender moment of Elodie approaching her tearful fiancé. Fuck this bullshit. I’m not some helpless sap she gets to kick whenever she feels like lashing out.

“I wouldn’t share a bed with you if we were in the middle of the Arctic and I was butt-ass naked,” I whisper, leaning in close. “I’ve learned not to want things that are bad for me, darling.”

Nobody else would be able to see that I hurt her. Nobody else would see anything other than what she lets them see—the ultra-stylish society wife, happily married to the CEO of a multibillion-dollar corporation. Only I see the slight flare of her nostrils, the tiny twitch at the corner of one eye. By Amber’s standards, that’s a full-on meltdown.

She tries to pull her hand from mine, but I tighten my grip, making it impossible for her to break free. My dick is still doing the thinking, and he’s enjoying this—the physical contact, the power play, the way her chest rises and falls as she breathes more heavily. If we were alone, she’d walk out—but here? Here, she’s stuck. Here, I have a little power, and I decide to use it. I want to confuse her, to surprise her. Hell, let’s be honest—I want to play with her.

I slide my free arm around her shoulder. “That being said, darling wife, this dress could persuade me otherwise. I love this color on you,” I murmur. “But I’d probably love this dress even more off you. It’d look great on the men’s room floor.”

Her breath catches, and the skin of her décolletage turns the faintest shade of pink. She wants to tell me to go to hell, but we both keep up our smiles, both putting on the show the world expects of us.

“I’d rather die than share a bed with you again too,” she murmurs. “Go find one of your little whores—one of your little playthings—if that’s what you want. I’ll even lend them the dress if it helps get you off.”

Furious, I drop her hand like it’s a dead animal. Where the fuck did that come from? I don’t have little whores, and I don’t play with other women. In the twenty-one years since we started dating, I have never once cheated on Amber. She knows that … Doesn’t she? Amber and I may not have made love for over six months, but I would never cheat.

No, I think bitterly, scratch that—we haven’t “made love” in well over a decade. There’s been angry sex, screwing each other into silence after fights, and we’re occasionally overcome by the physical attraction that never seems to fade between us. But our furious, fantastic fucking is always followed by one of us—usually Amber—retreating, leaving us both full of regret and self-loathing. I imagine she scrubs herself clean in the shower while chastising herself for being weak. Maybe she writes “I Must Not Sleep with My Husband” a hundred times in one of the notebooks she keeps with her at all times.

Whatever she does, it’s been working, because even that accidental contact hasn’t happened recently. We have stuck to our own rooms, our own sections of the too-big townhouse we share. Stuck to our own lives. None of this is new, though, so why would she think I’d cheat on her now? Or is she screwing with me? Fuck. It’s so hard to tell with her. I course correct my frown back into a smile.

“Oh my!” Amber shuffles slightly farther away from me. She’s talking more loudly now, happy to be overheard gushing. “Look at the way Mitchell is gazing at her. Right there, that’s what a recipe for love looks like.”

An older woman sitting in the row in front of us turns and smiles, as tearfully emotional about the scene playing out before us as Amber pretends to be.

And this right here, I think as I try not to be provoked by her giving me the cold shoulder, is what a recipe for love looks like when you add one more ingredient: a sprinkle of hate.