I force my eyes from the floor, where they have been fixed since I mentioned the illustrious rocker, and look to my husband. His expression isn’t one of outrage or jealousy. More than anything, he seems shocked. So much so, that he’s gripping his half-fastened shirt, hard enough to snap off the buttons.

“Yeah. Crazy.” I can see he’s trying to seem casual about it, but there are questions swimming in those deep blue eyes. Doubt. Perhaps even fear.

In an attempt to ease the discord that is undoubtedly tensing his broad shoulders, I plaster on a fake smile and traipse over to where he stands as still as stone. I place my lips to his cold, rigid mouth. At first, he doesn’t reciprocate, but as my warmth thaws his chilly demeanor, I feel him melt into me, responding with a firm yet sweet kiss.

“Are you hungry?” I ask, in my most appeasing voice—the voice I only unleash whenever I feel guilty or remorseful. “I could make you some soup and a sandwich. I’m still pretty full so I may just have a salad.”

“Soup and sandwich?” He frowns, and it’s the first sign of discontent that he’s shown me. For fucking food. “Where’s Lucia? It’s Wednesday.”

Right. Wednesday.

Every Wednesday, like clockwork, Lucia makes Tucker’s favorite, chicken enchiladas. She’s Dominican, but she loves him, so she makes it a point to fix him his favorite feast weekly. She goes all out too—rice, beans, homemade guacamole. They’re downright sinful, and Tuck hits the cardio extra hard on Thursday morning to afford them.

I hate enchiladas. Always have. So I usually end up eating salad, or settling for a liquid dinner consisting of fermented grapes.

It’s been like that for as long as I can remember. And like a bad wifey, I just deviated from the routine.

“I sent her home early, Tuck. I told her not to worry about it this week.”

He looks wounded, as if I purposely deprived him of his favorite source of sustenance. And maybe on some fucked up level, I did. Maybe I wanted to ruffle his damn rituals and push him just a bit to see how he’d react. To see if that same fire exists in those eyes that pierced right through me as I lay writhing on a borrowed bed last Friday night. The fury that forced him to roughly push me against the wall and fill the same space that Ransom had owned just hours before. I knew what he was doing—Tucker was marking me. Erasing the remnants of that stranger inside me with his dick. Cleansing my sullied shame with his hot seed.

I need to feel that again. I need to see that hunger and desire for me. Not some goddamn enchiladas.

“Yeah, sure,” he grumbles, as he continues to undress. He won’t look at me. I’ve offended him. Out of all the things I could have done and said today—out of all the reasons to hate me—it takes a lost pile of cheese, meat, and sour cream to insult him.

I throw together a sandwich for him with little finesse, not even bothering to dress it with his favorite condiments. There’s some leftover tomato bisque in the fridge and I heat that up too. When Tucker emerges from the bedroom, I’ve got his food waiting for him at the bistro table, along with a cold beer. See, I can be domestic. I can pose as the perfect wife that’s perfectly content with caring for her perfect husband.

“Looks great, babe,” he smiles before kissing me tenderly. The taste of irritation no longer rests on those too-full lips. He sits down and digs into his pedestrian meal as zestfully as if it were Lucia’s home cooking. Even when I give him a reason to be pissed at me, he doesn’t take the bait.

“Where’s your dinner?” he asks around a mouthful of pastrami.

“I ate too much at lunch. I actually want to get a little work done before it gets too late. Then maybe we can watch a movie?”

“Sure. Whatever you want, babe,” he nods, digging back into his food.

I ruffle his soft, brown waves and kiss the crown of his head lovingly. Tucker’s a good man, and I love him. And I’d be a fool to think that he doesn’t love me, considering what he’s supported me through . . . considering what he’s given me. And what have I done? Lusted for another man. But maybe it’s not the man that I want. Maybe it’s that brash, careless attitude. Or the arrogant swagger. Or the feeling of being soiled by him with just a vulgar word.

That’s just not Tucker. I knew that ten years ago, and I loved that about him. He never made me feel anything but safe and cherished. I didn’t have to worry about whether or not he was being honest about his feelings. There were no complicated layers or minced words. He was always Tucker—kind, generous, and compassionate.

Just as I will always be Heidi. I’m just not sure who that is anymore.

TONIGHT ON E! News . . .

A drug-related arrest, leaked photos with a suspected prostitute and a possible stint in jail.

Good evening, everyone. We’re talking about Evan Carr’s sudden fall from Manhattan royalty, and what may have caused some of his recent erratic behavior.

After his very public divorce months ago, Evan’s friends and family are truly worried for his life, saying that he’s “out of control” and in a “dangerous, self-destructive state of grieving.” Later on, we’ll hear from the woman rumored to have been his mistress during the time he was married to America’s sweetheart, Allison Elliot, who is now linked to intimacy coach and Evan’s half-brother, Justice Drake.

But first, we’ll get a behind-the-scenes sneak peek into the world of Ransom, the band that’s known for their sizzling sound, as well as their ubersexy style. Find out how you can get their smoking hot look at home—

I click off the television and release a resigned sigh. That’s enough Ransom Reed for one day. But just as I look over to my husband’s sleeping form, my cell vibrates on the nightstand at my side. Who the hell could that be? It’s not dreadfully late, but definitely past social hours.

Got your email. Food Network? Really?

It’s Ransom. Holy shit.

My finger hovers over the message field on my iPhone, but I don’t tap in a reply. Not yet, at least. I know I need to; this is strictly a business matter. But why does it feel like I’m doing something wrong?

Thought it’d be perfect for you, seeing as you love to eat good food. They’re always looking for celebrity judges.

There. Short and sweet. That should answer his question. And if he fights me on it . . .

The phone vibrates again before I can consider his reaction any further.

Yeah. That’s true. And if all else fails, at least I’ll get a free meal out of it.

Like you hardly need to worry about that. I’m still pissed you didn’t let me pay for lunch. It was a business expense, after all.

I’m smiling down at my phone, thinking about his earnest attempt to be a gentleman. Just as the waiter was approaching with the bill, Ransom quite literally shoved a wad of bills at him before I could object. He didn’t even see what the damage was, but I’m guessing it was enough to cover our meal, and a hefty tip.

Don’t worry about it. Next time.

Next time? Will there be a next time? Other than business-related meetings, can I allow myself to break bread with him again?

The answer is a resounding no, but I’m trying not to hear it. I don’t respond.

You ever seen the movie Edward Scissorhands?

I nearly chuckle aloud.

Uh. Who hasn’t? It’s only one of the most iconic films of the 90s.

Johnny Depp fan, huh?

I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.

I blush. Oh shit. Just the mention of a bed brings back memories of those dark satin sheets. I may not be able to listen to Jay-Z ever again.