Page 165 of Hate You More

“I can manage,” I snap. My back to him, I take a centering breath. I’m not going to do this right now. I will have an explanation from him but a showdown requires a calm head. Caffeine. Hydration. And probably pants.

“The machine and I are now friends,” I add in a nicer tone, making a show of stroking the shiny chrome. Tipping onto my toes, I reach for a cup. “Want a refill?” I turn my head over my shoulder and find his eyes on my legs. Yesterday, I would’ve felt different about it.

“I’ve got a meeting soon,” he says, glancing at his watch. It looks like the fancy F.P.Journe today. The private jet of watches.

I tamp the freshly ground coffee a little too vigorously. Lock the filter into place, hit the button, and move to the fridge for milk.

“You’re kinda quiet this morning.”

“Am I?” I hit the “Steam” button, so I don’t have to answer. Once my coffee is done, I take a seat on the island next to him, because even I’m not that petty.

“You okay?” he asks as he sets down his spoon.

I nod. “You?”

“Just really busy. Sorry I didn’t make it home for dinner last night. There’s a lot going on at the minute. Lots of moving parts that can’t be left on their own.”

“It’s fine.” I’m impressed by how even that sounded. How believable.

“I’ll probably be in the office all day.” Oh, friend, I’ve got it. We’re not spending the day together. “Do you have plans?”

“Yeah, lunch with Chelsea.” Possibly. Hopefully. Though she likely has work. I take a sip of my too-hot coffee and burn my tongue. It should be a preventive, but I can’t seem to stop myself. “I thought we—” No. I’m not doing this now.

“We what?” He slants me a look.

We . . . what. What even are we? The words shrink on my tongue, that finger back to hammering on the top of my head.

“Do you have any Tylenol?” I ask with a genuine wince.

“Probably in the bathroom. Want me to get you the bottle?”

“No, thank you.” Don’t be nice to me now. “I’ll drink my coffee first.”

“What were you about to say? You thought we . . .”

I allow my expression to falter as though thinking. “Not sure.” I arch my stiff back a little and ignore the weight of his eyes on me. “I probably won’t be home for dinner,” I add as I tighten the belt on my robe. Thank God that sounded normal, because I still feel as salty as a fishwife. But salty is better than sad.

“Oh?” I think I hear a note of disappointment, but I’m probably just fooling myself. “I mean, okay. But let me know if you need a car or anything.”

“I will.” Not a chance.

Troy leans back in his chair, rubbing his right eye with the heel of his palm.

“Tired?”

“Yeah. I haven’t spent as long in the office since the run-up to the IPO.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.” That doesn’t ring true, not the way his gaze avoids mine.

“You’re sure?”

“Just some . . . teething problems. We’re still finding our feet.”

“Right.” If he can’t tell me, I’m not going to push.

I’ve held up my part of the bargain, and I’ve seen our faces on the internet plenty, leaving restaurants and gala evenings. Soft smiles and adoring looks. Holding hands. Bodies close. If it’s not working to plan, if this marriage isn’t achieving all he hoped, that’s not on me.