When it’s over and he collapses beside me, chest heaving like he just ran a marathon, the emptiness quickly creeps back in.
Still full of him, I reach for his dresser, tugging open the drawer. I grab one of his clean socks to avoid making a mess.
“Really, my favorite golf socks?” Jacob says, half laughing, half annoyed.
I head toward the bathroom. “It was your socks or a wet bed. And I do your laundry anyway. You’re welcome.”
And the cooking. And the cleaning.
“You mean the clean laundry that stays in the basket for days because you’re too busy daydreaming?” he fires back.
I don’t bother replying. I wash up and climb back into bed, staring at our wedding photo hanging on our wall. I know something has to change. The great sex is just a Band-Aid. Butdeep down, I know something's missing. I just don’t know what, or how to fix it.
Tomorrow,I tell myself.Tomorrow, I’ll figure it out.
Chapter 3: A Dangerous Spark
Jenna: September
As I approach my office, dread tightens in my chest. “This is just temporary,” I mutter, over the buzz of power tools and the steady pounding of hammers. Even though I’ve been working here with Izzy for six months. But hey, it’s better than the catering job I hated or freelancing where I pretended to know what I was doing. This job’s progress. At least it’s supposed to be.
Nothing stays the same forever anyway. My job, my marriage, my life. They are all one big waiting game. Waiting for clarity. Waiting for happiness. Waiting for the right time. Every decision seems impossible, big or small. Tacos or steak? Netflix or read? Stay or go? Quit my job or run away?
Inside, the sharp scent of wet plaster and sawdust lingers in the air as workers patch up drywall and rip out soggy carpet. A few days ago, a pipe burst, flooding most of the third floor,including our office suite. We share the space with dentists, therapists, and other small businesses, and now it'll take months to repair the damage across the building.
Our side’s still mostly functional, aside from the occasional ceiling drip and the constant construction noise. My boss, overwhelmed by the mayhem, asked me to oversee some of the redesign decisions—paint colors, layouts, furniture. It’s not technically part of my job, but I jumped at the chance to finally control something.
I step through the doorway, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. A last-minute side braid, ketchup-stained blouse, and a skirt so tight, it highlights my laundry day granny panties. Nice. I instantly regret my decision to rock the unintentional I-don’t-give-a-shit, thirty-nine-year-old-mother-of-two-running-on-no-sleep vibe. Then again, it’s been my look more often than not lately. I walk over to Izzy’s desk, hoping she has a Tide-to-Go pen in her drawer.
Instead, I find three condoms and lipstick. This won’t fix the stain. I smile, shaking my head, and turn back. A ladder rests against the wall near my desk, and some guy is humming while fiddling with a measuring tape.
Carefully, I weave through the mess, balancing a stack of papers, apples, sweet tea, and Lily’s banana dolphin project. My desk is only a few feet away. I think I might make it, but the universe has other plans.
A man I don’t recognize turns around.
Messy brown hair. Tanned skin. Lean muscles beneath a tight grey tee covered in sawdust. A tool belt slung low on his hips. He looks like he stepped out of aSexy Men with Toolscalendar.And my weakness? A shadow of scruff that frames his rugged jawline. He’s absolutely filthy… but not as filthy as my thoughts.
I stare a second too long.
My cup shifts, and the papers slide as I adjust my grip. I glance away, hoping he didn’t catch me eyeballing the hell out of him.
Too late. He sees me. Our eyes lock. I miss the roll of plastic sheet beneath my foot. It slides, I lose balance… and BAM! I crash straight into Dirty McHottie.
Tea goes flying. Fruit launches. I leap to catch it, and my shoulder hits his chest. He barely flinches as his hands slide around my back, steadying me. “Whoa, easy there,” he says, his voice deep and warm. Until he realizes he’s touching me. Then he steps back quickly, surveying the crime scene.
Banana dolphin? Dead.
Papers? Soaked.
Apples? Bruised.
My ego? Ruined.
And possibly more bruised than the apples.
He lets out a big laugh, kicking the plastic sheet out of the way with his boot.
“What was that noise? Some kind of extinct bird?” I cry out, my cheeks turning as red as the ketchup stain on my blouse.
