His Missing Wife by Jaime Hendricks (nice books to read .TXT) 📕

This time I stiffen, and he notices. He stops quizzing me and places a hand over mine. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it.”

I take him up on that and we finish dinner with small talk.

“I have a surprise,” he says after we share a chocolate soufflé, one that he knew to order in advance. “Do you trust me?”

“I do,” I say, and I mean it.

“You sure? I don’t want you to be scared.” He takes a sash out of his back pocket and raises his eyebrows. “May I?”

I hesitate. “You want to blindfold me?”

“Just for a minute.”

A blindfold is a trigger for me, and the room whizzes before me in my dizziness and I feel like I’m breathing in a coffin. It’s been like that ever since Drew decided on a “fun” sex game, where he tied me up and blindfolded me, then got a phone call from a client and left to take it in his office. I heard the conversation getting heated, then the front door slammed. He didn’t come back for seven hours.

James’s crooked smile melts me. He isn’t going to hurt me. Not in front of half a million people, anyway.

“Okay.”

He ties the sash around my eyes. In seconds, the rest of my senses become heightened. The music is louder, the street-meat smell is more pungent, and I even taste the cologne of passing men. James grabs my elbow.

“Don’t worry, it’s still just me. Let’s go.”

I’m walking unsteadily, like a baby deer, as we slowly walk through the crowds. He laughs the whole time, shouting “excuse me, she’s getting a surprise!” to the people who are probably staring in horror or delight. It’s less than two minutes when we stop, and I feel him untying it.

“Tah dah!” he says. My eyes readjust and I see we’re in front of a theater. Wicked is playing. “You said The Wizard of Oz was your favorite movie. I thought you’d enjoy this.”

What? My favorite movie is Legally Blonde.

Oh. Right. I told him that design story about the color. The one I swiped off someone else.

That’s not James’s fault. As far as he knows, he did good. And he did, because he did it for me, did something he thought I would love. The theater in front of me goes misty, because tears spring to my eyes. No one has ever done something like this for me before. Ever.

“I—” Jesus Christ, I almost say I love you. “I don’t know what to say.”

I have to stop there, or I’m going to make a mess out of whatever this is we’ve started. Falling too fast never ends well for me. But my God, this man.

The play is my first, and I feel like Cinderella. The whole time, I lean forward on my seat and I swear I look like a five-year-old watching a cartoon. When it’s over, he asks what I want to do next, saying the city never sleeps and he’ll take me anywhere I want to go.

“I want to go back to the hotel,” I say. It’s the only place I want to be. There. With him. Alone. Together.

He takes the hint, and we leave. Back at the hotel, I take my roses from the back seat and we go inside. It’s late, almost midnight, and the employees in the lobby stare at the young couple. The young couple in love.

At least I am.

He takes me to my door and starts with the same I had a really nice time. That’s what I think he’s about to say, anyway. I stop him midsentence and pull him toward me for a kiss. One that he returns, in the most feverish, romantic way. Our lips are still connected as I reach a hand into the front pocket of my purse for my keycard and wave it at the door until I hear the beep, and I slide the handle down and open it, pulling him inside my room.

My jacket comes off, and I reach for his belt.

“Wait,” he says, breathless. “We don’t have to do this. That’s not why I did this tonight.”

“Then why did you?” I ask.

“Because I wanted to make you happy.”

I finish his belt and undo his pants, then unbutton his shirt and throw it on the ground. My dress comes off.

Oh no! Wait! Not—

He turns me around and wipes the hair off my neck and kisses it and then—

“What’s this?” he asks.

He’s horrified. He’s seen it. What a way to ruin a moment. It’s been ruining moments for fourteen years. Wait, that’s not true. It’s ruined moments for me. Most men just laughed at it, assuming it was true.

“Oh,” I say.

Then I start to cry. I sit on the bed in only my bra and panties, my face in my hands.

“Tessa, shhh.” He sits next to me, in boxers and an undershirt, and puts his arm around me.

I whimper for a few minutes, and he stands and goes to the bathroom. He comes back with a glass of water and tissues, and I take both. I have to explain it.

“I was married for a few weeks when I was a teenager. To someone older. I had to get out of that Hell House. I was in a foster home and I—” I stop talking for a minute to gather my thoughts. I don’t want to tell him too much. Not yet. “He was a tattoo artist. I asked him for a lower back tattoo the night we got married. He drew the design, and I approved it. One of those things they call a tramp stamp. Which, honestly, would’ve been infinitely better. I was so happy when it was done a week later. I made him take a picture so I could see it. When he showed me, he laughed.”

There was no tribal design. Instead, tattooed on my lower back for the whole world to see, was White Trash Whore. In huge letters.

“Oh God.” James was speechless.

“I’ve never been able to afford to