SEVER

I ignore the question. “It is this weekend, and the flowers are exquisite.” I want to tame the surge of hope by beating it with a stick, but it feels too good to ignore.
“I can’t remember the last time I was given flowers,” Amanda pouts while crossing her arms.
“The men who give them are a dying breed, I assure you. When you find one, don’t let him go.” Unless he lets go first. “Hey, listen…” I say, changing subject before it gets too heavy. “When the files come through from Mr. Alexander’s assistant, can you forward them to me? Doesn’t matter what time.” I hook my handbag over my shoulder and balance the bouquet with my free hand. “I’m extremely curious as to the mystery surrounding this file. And no peeking. I don’t want any spoilers.”
“That man can spoil me as much as he likes,” she says, failing to hide her filthy smile.
“Says every woman he’s graced the presence of.”
Amanda raises a brow. “Including you?”
I laugh lightly. “I’m not immune to his charms. I’m am, however, married.” For what it’s worth. “So, take your best shot.” I start heading out the door. “Remember to send through the files as soon as you get them. I don’t care how late.”
“Heard you the first time, boss lady.”
Thirty minutes later, I pull into the drive and stare at the bouquet which has perfumed my car. Then my focus falls on my beautiful home, which in the twilight glow is even more welcoming.
But home for how long? I don’t know.
Closing the front door behind me, I see Shawn sitting at the counter studying a long message on his cell, a scotch poured, the bottle ready and waiting for the next. This scenario isn’t unusual, but it happening at this time of day is, considering he often doesn’t make it home until after I’ve gone to bed. He also said he wouldn’t be home, so him being here raises suspicion.
With his back to me, I place a gentle kiss on his cheek and he flinches. I step back, unsure why he’s reacted so strongly.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” he says curtly. I look behind me to the door and then back to my husband. How had he not heard me close the door, and my heels on the polished concrete? He seems rattled and whatever he’s been reading on his cell certainly is the cause of it.
“Everything okay?” I ask, cautiously.
“Fine,” he dismisses, downing the rest of his scotch before pouring another. Shawn still hasn’t turned to greet me, so I circle the counter and place the bouquet on top.
“Nice flowers,” he says, turning his cell off before running a hand over his face. He looks like shit. Stress is eating away at any charisma he has left. Perhaps my presence alone is enough to cause such a reaction.
“Thank you,” I say, touching a silky petal between two fingers. “I didn’t expect them.”
He frowns, shaking his head slowly, his aqua-blue eyes locking onto mine.
“Blythe, those flowers aren’t from me.”
In that moment, I recall how my name sounded coming from Kane Alexander’s mouth compared to that of my husband just now.
I go to rebut, but close my mouth, realizing I’ve brought another man’s bouquet of flowers home and my husband hasn’t even batted an eyelid. I stop touching the petals, feeling like it’s a betrayal. A betrayal against the man I married, but it can no longer be called a marriage. The hope I’d had earlier crumbles like an avalanche.
If these aren’t from my husband, there’s no reconciliation, no peace treaty, no white flag.
I take his crystal glass and quarter-fill it with scotch. Downing it in one hit, I pour another and lean against the fridge. “Why are you home early?” The words are loaded with hurt and anger.
He studies me for a moment, eyes empty of all emotion. “I’ve come to tell you I won’t be home for a week.”
A week. He’ll miss our anniversary.
You’re a foolish woman.
Why do you care anymore? Because someone has to.
My anger spikes. “You’re leaving? For a week?” I ask, shaking my head at his downright incredulous behavior. “It’s our anniversary, Shawn. I understand we seem to be heading in vastly different directions without love for each other, but once upon a time, we did love. I still do. And if you have one ounce of love left for me, you’ll ensure we spent our anniversary together.”
There’s a flicker of remorse before it dissolves, hardened eyes now staring back at me. When he doesn’t respond, I continue, straightening my shoulders in defiance, “If this is how you want it, fine. I won’t be here when you come back.” I push off the fridge and take to the stairs two at a time when I hear him following close behind. I quicken my pace wanting to be as far away from him as possible. I reach the bedroom, and as I go to slam the door behind me, he jars it open with his shoe.
I spin to face him with all my fury. His large body fills the space, his broad chest heaving. We’re both angry but for very different reasons.
“Don’t make rash decisions, Blythe.”
I take a step forward and push against his chest. When he doesn’t move, I do it again, this time, a pained scream escapes my lips, tears blurring my vision. When I go to hit a third time, he wraps his fingers around my wrists and turns me so my back is against his chest. He restrains me by wrapping strong arms around mine. Shawn breaths heavily against my cheek, his lips tasting my tears. When I struggle, he tightens, and for a moment we’re caught in a bittersweet embrace. We haven’t been this physically close in almost a year and now that we