Page 98 of Ruthless Claim

He moves to the cabinet and opens it before closing it a few seconds later.

My mouth dries. He’s been in this kitchen a hundred times and he just opened the fridge and a cabinet and got nothing from either of them. Something is wrong.

“You should rest,” he says, still not quite looking at me. “You look tired.”

I nod, swallowing heavily. “I am. I’m going to take a nap.”

“Good idea.”

I nod and steal another glance at him before I head to the bedroom. But instead of lying down, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the hardwood floors, thinking about the look on Cillian’s face when he saw me.

He wasn’t talking to Connor.

I don’t have a reason for that thought. It’s just—Connor calls have a certain flavor to them.

Whenever Cillian gets off the phone with Connor, his jaw is tight and he’s quieter than usual.

Sometimes he pours himself a drink before he does anything else. That’s Connor. I know that version.

What I saw in that hallway was different.

The quick surprise on his face.

The specific phrasing of nothing important—not just Connor or work stuff but nothing important. “Nothing important” is what you say when you don’t want to divulge information.

I reach into my bag for my phone.

I don’t know what I’m going to do with it. I just need something to do with my hands.

I put it back.

Okay, I need to think about this logically. I came home early and surprised my husband on a work call.

He wasn’t expecting me to be home so early and why would he? Lunches with my mother can last several hours.

Of course he was surprised.

And why would he ever tell me details about work?

I generally don’t want to know and he knows that.

So why am I now cataloguing his facial expressions like I’m looking for something?

I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

There’s a faint water mark just left of the light fixture to stare it.

He has complicated work and I know better than to expect full transparency about any of it.

And the fact that he took a call and didn’t immediately debrief me on it is not⁠—

My stomach roils and I press my hand flat against it, breathing through my nose, waiting to see if the wave is going to peak or pass. It sits there, heavy and insistent, not quite either.

I keep my hand on my stomach, trying to figure out if what I’m feeling is the nausea or something else.

I can’t tell.

They feel the same right now.