My cock has a fucking mind of its own, now straining against the zipper of my tailored pants. I don’t know why. She’s hardly done a thing.

Perhaps it’s the way she plays innocent, but deep down I know she’s probably a freak behind closed doors.

She’s right about one thing. She doesn’t shut up. She is a blabbermouth. She doesn’t hold back. I’m not quite sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“Mr. Boyd, we really should have caught that lunch together,” she whispers.

“No,” I state, but it’s flat and lifeless. There is no meaning to it. Just a simple word in the air. “Here is fine.”

“Too bad,” she breathes, her voice now a seductive rasp. “I think it would have been great to get to know someone like you.”

“Business, Miss Clark,” I say under my breath. “This is business.”

“I know,” she agrees. “That’s what makes this much more exhilarating. But you’re right.” She holds up two hands, as if pausing on everything. “Let’s focus on work. Are you going to make that call, or what?” Her brows raise and a smile touches the corners of her lips.

I study her face, my heartbeat picking up in speed. She’s grinning now, dropping her gaze, and allowing me to ogle her.

Her legs are crossed, her skin appearing satiny smooth beneath the rays of sunlight. Her teeth are still clinging to that juicy, plump bottom lip.

She sucks in and then releases, making me wonder what more she can do with that mouth of hers.

I’m sure there is so much more, and if she doesn’t know, I can always show her…

Then again I can’t.

Colette.

My wife.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” I start, and she looks up. “If I didn’t have a wife or a ring on my finger, I may have considered that lunch with you. Unfortunately, reality always wins.” Shouldn’t I feel terrible for saying something like that to her? If so, I don’t. Not when I know how Colette really is. But this woman doesn’t need to know everything.

Her face glows, teeth sparkling from the stream of sunlight. “That’s wonderful to know, Mr. Boyd. I’m sure you don’t tell women that often.”

“No,” I say, knowing I really shouldn’t have said it at all. “I don’t. Consider yourself fortunate.”

TWO

Colette

I haven’t come to peace with my downfalls. My failures.

They are what hold me back. My disgraces make me feel like I am less of a woman.

As I sit on the park bench, studying each mother happily pushing the stroller before her, fingers gridlocked around the handles as if they will never allow any harm to come to their tiny offspring, I feel something heavy settle in my stomach.

The feeling is always like swallowing a block of lead. It’s weighty and uncomfortable and it never bothers to leave me alone.

I can admit that it’s easier to accept now, but it’s the very sight of the protruding bellies, the mothers calling for their toddlers, or cooing to their darlings that makes me wince and want to curl into the very fetal position that child had once been in.

I observe the park with a pant, catching my breath. The air is thick and salty. I hate Florida. There’s too much humidity, too much crime, and not enough privacy. I have no idea why I agreed to move here with Griffin.

I’ve just completed a run around the park three times and I pushed myself until I no longer could.

Griffin really irritated me this morning with the breakfast. Why couldn’t he just cut up some fresh fruit, maybe make tea instead of the coffee?

Perhaps I was too hard on him.

I should feel bad, but I don’t. He’s my husband. He should remember things, like how I have a salsa competition coming up next month and need to stay in good shape for it.

I’m one of the leading ladies. I have to be in tip-top shape. I can’t let the younger girls outshine me. I’ve always been good at the arts—the best.

I should thank him anyway for trying. I mean, it’s what a good wife would do, right? Even though it’s not what she wants, it’s the effort that counts.

Yeah, a good wife would appreciate it. Though I consider myself far from the good wife.

I don’t dress up for him anymore. I don’t expect him to take me on dates because every time he plans something I turn it down or I hate where we end up going.

I can’t lie.

I am a horrible wife.

I care more for myself than anyone else, but there is a reason things are this way now. I cared once, a little too much, and it was only me who hurt in the end. Not Griffin. He didn’t endure that pain. He couldn’t have possibly understood why it’d made me so cold.

I guess I should apologize.

Unstrapping my workout armband and puling out my cellphone, I give him a call. The phone rings several times until it reaches his voicemail. I don’t bother leaving one. He’ll call back. He always does.

Tucking the phone back into the armband, I grab my bottle of water, take a swift swig, and then I push off the bench, heading east to finish my run home.

When I get home, Griffin is nowhere in sight. His car is gone, the greasy breakfast still on the table. “Arianna!” I call.

She appears in no time. “Yes, Mrs. Boyd?” Ugh. I hate when she calls me that.

“Where did Griffin take off to?”

“Oh, he went into work. I think someone important is here to see him.”

“Who could be so important that he’d go in on his only day off this month?” The question is rhetorical but Arianna shrugs in response anyway.

I look from her to the food again. Griffin didn’t even touch his plate. I know it’s his on the end of the table. The mess he creates, just slapping everything on top of it, letting his food touch. I can’t stand it.

“Well, clean this mess please,” I sigh. “I’m going to get in the shower.”

“Yes ma’am.” She drops the duster in her hand and sits it in the corner, immediately attending to the leftover breakfast and dirty dishes.

I take a shower and freshen up, applying a light spritz of perfume, rubbing deodorant under my arms, and then dressing in a light sundress. It’s when I’m in the study reading a novel for over an hour when I realize Griffin still hasn’t called me back.

This is rare. He usually calls back in no time, no matter how busy he is. He doesn’t like to keep me waiting. I lift my phone to check the time. It’s nearing three in the afternoon. Blowing a breath, I climb off of the recliner, go to the bedroom, and lay in bed, deciding to take a quick nap.

I don’t know when my husband will return and quite honestly I don’t care anymore. He loves to work more than be around me, I’m sure. I’m the same way. He claims he tries so hard, bringing me flowers and chocolate that he knows damn well will only sit in the junk food pantry in the kitchen.

He’ll buy the wrong kind of easels or the worst kind of paintbrushes. Mom hates that I’m so hard on him. She says I shouldn’t be because at least he tries. She only tells me that because my father, her husband, doesn’t try at all with her anymore.

Well, to me, Griffin doesn’t try hard enough. He needs to learn what I like and what I want, instead of inconsiderately guessing.

Honestly, I’d much rather paint, draw, and shop than be in this home. Just the thought of being here makes my skin crawl sometimes.

I should be worried about what could have Griffin held up, but I’m not. We’ve been distant for years, but one thing I know for sure is that he will never sleep with anyone else.

He will never have an affair because there is too much on the line for us. His job is too important and the person he works for expects him never to fail. They expect perfection and in our own little fantasy, we are a perfectly happy couple.