Sext Misfired Husband Cheats Second Chance Burns

The rattle of metal against the front door lock echoed up the stairs, shattering the quiet of the house.

"Crane," I whispered.

I shoved my phone deep into the fleece pocket of my bathrobe. My fingers fumbled with the bathroom faucet. I splashed freezing water over my cheeks, grabbed a hand towel, and pushed the door open just as the heavy oak front door swung shut downstairs.

I walked to the top of the landing. Crane Ashford stood in the foyer, shrugging off his tailored suit jacket.

"You're home early," I called down.

He jumped slightly, his head snapping up. "Jesus, Vivienne. You startled me."

"Sorry," I said, descending the stairs slowly. "You usually don't get back until past midnight on Thursdays."

"Traffic was light," he replied. He draped the jacket over the wooden coat rack.

I stepped closer to him. A scent hit me. It wasn't the sterile, air-conditioned smell of his downtown office. It wasn't the sharp bite of his expensive cologne. It was floral. Sweet. A faint, lingering perfume that definitely didn't come from our laundry detergent.

"Did you close the deal?" I asked, keeping my voice perfectly even.

"Pushed to tomorrow." He didn't look at me. He busied himself with unfastening his cuffs. "The client needed more time to review the clauses."

"That doesn't sound like your usual clients," I said. "They usually sign on the dotted line the second you walk in the room."

"Well, this one is difficult," he muttered.

"Which client is it?" I pressed. "The tech startup or the real estate firm?"

"You wouldn't know them, Vivienne."