Fifteen minutes. Just fifteen damn minutes is all I spend in the kitchen, and by the time I walk into the living room, Turner is lounging on the couch watching a ball game, all thoughts of our movie night apparently erased from his memory.

I watch him covertly from behind the sofa as he lies on his back staring at the screen. Am I being paranoid? I have no clue what has happened to my husband, but the thought of him being with another woman has my gut twisted and my heart breaking. I have given my all to this man. Is he cheating on me? And why? We’re together all the time. Turner dotes on me. He’s romantic; he’s kind. I have so many questions. I can’t just come out and ask him. I love him so much that I know I wouldn’t be able to survive a blow like that. It would destroy me.

“Oh, Turner . . . my world, my love. What in the hell is going on?” I whisper.

I continue to stare at the man who owns my heart and think back to the sex we had in the garage. The feeling of pure, raw, primal fucking is what has me shuddering and aching between my legs. Turner has never been like that with me before. Not one time has he talked to me the way he did today. I am not going to lie by saying I didn’t enjoy the dirty talk, but shit! When he said cunt, I have to admit I was a little shocked . . . no, I was more like stunned, at his language.

Turner is not boring by any means. I quiver at the memory of the things he can do with his tongue. Today, he dove right in, just as usual. One thing I can say about my husband is that he has a huge appetite for sex, always has, but what I don’t understand is why it was so rough.

Not that I didn’t like it, because I did. It was the best sex we have ever had, hands down. So intense, like neither one of us could get enough of the other. I have never seen Turner come apart like that. The wild side of me that I never even knew I had wants more of that kind of sex. I would love for Turner to take me any way he wants me, to pound into me over and over again until I am so sore that I can barely walk the next day.

A single tear slowly falls down my face as I envision another woman touching, kissing, and making love to my husband. The pain is too much to bear.

I need to stop thinking this way; there is absolutely no way that Turner would destroy everything we have and the future we’ve planned. Children, grandchildren . . . I refuse to believe it. He would never cheat on me. Turner Calloway is an honest man. Why have these thoughts even popped into my head in the first place?

I tilt my head to the side as I run my hand through my hair and then place it over my heart. It’s beating so damn fast. I’ve never had a panic attack before, but this sure as hell feels like one. I am overwhelmed by the fear-inducing unknown as my heart races, pounding relentlessly in my chest. I start to hyperventilate, feeling as if I could throw up at any moment.

I scurry backwards out of the room as fast as I can before Turner even realizes I was there. Upon entering the kitchen I bend over the sink, trying to regain my composure. I breathe in and out several times to calm myself down and my heart rate gradually returns to normal.

The quicker I get these ludicrous ideas out of my head, the quicker I can get back to the happy woman I was when I left here to pick him up. I know this, so why do I have the nagging sensation deep in the pit of my stomach that I should investigate a little further?

I push away from the sink and on silent feet go to grab Turner’s carry-on bag from where he left it by the front door. I rush down the hall to the laundry room with it and set it on the small table I use to fold laundry. My husband is in the habit of leaving loose change and receipts in his pockets, so I carefully check each one. As I am pulling out a pair of jeans, a card falls to the floor.

“The Cigar Bar,” it reads.

What in the hell would he have this for? He hates the smell of cigars with a passion. Just when I thought I’d pushed my insecurities to the back of my mind, I find this. I don’t understand at all what’s happening here. My brain is short-circuiting and I need someone to hit the reset button. I grab the edge of the washing machine to steady myself, but I feel like all I am doing is stumbling over a cliff. The card slips through my fingers and falls to the floor as I press the heels of my hands into my eyes.

My legs give out and I slide down to the floor, shaking my head back and forth as pain rips through my chest. Am I reading too much into this? Maybe Turner was tired from his trip and just needed to unwind and relax. Damn it all to hell, my head is spinning and I feel like I am about to lose control.

“It’s only a couple of strange things, Clove. Why are you letting this get to you?” I say out loud.

I think for a moment about those words, but you know what? I know my husband. There is no fucking way he would go to a cigar bar, and there is no fucking way he would sit around and drink the way he did tonight . . . unless there was something very, very, wrong.

Fuck me, I am going to find out. But how? There’s no one I can share this with; they would all laugh in my face and think I am being ridiculous. Most of my friends are jealous of the way Turner treats me. Even after all of these years, he still opens my car door for me, and kisses me goodnight and good morning.

So many times I have seen this man looking at me with simple adoration. Every single time I catch him at it, we have a routine. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ I’ll ask him. And his answer is invariably, ‘I’m admiring the most beautiful woman in the world. Is that all right with you?’ ‘It’s always all right with me,’ I smile.

But not today. Every time he looked at me today, all I saw was a man who looked like he had never seen me before.

Damn. What is wrong with me and my crazy thoughts? I rub my temples and try to think. Knowing the truth would be so much better than this torture, so I pick up the phone and send a text to the one person who I know will listen to me. My brother, Zack.

I text him, telling him I really need to talk to him. I sit my phone on the floor next to me and wait on his reply. After a few moments, he texts back.

Are you all right?

Yeah, fine. I just need to talk to you about something is all.

All right. Call me tomorrow. Night, and love you, sis.

Love you, too. Give my little nephew a big kiss from me.



A chuckle escapes my lips at his smiley face, but all too soon my thoughts drift back to Turner. Straightening up, I tell myself that even though his behavior is a little strange, there are not sufficient signs of an affair, though the evidence certainly seems to point to one.

I scoop the card up off of the floor and slip it back into his bag, and try and put his clothes back inside exactly the way they were. I set it back where he left it. Fuck it; he can clean the damn thing out himself.

My mind is jumping all over the place like a dammed flea. I need to calm down and pull myself together before I face Turner again. I am going to push all of this into the back of my mind until I have proof of my suspicions. The best way to find out the truth is to throw him off guard by acting as if his actions haven’t affected me at all.

I should just go upstairs to our room without saying anything and let him come to bed whenever he wants. Yeah, right. He would definitely know something is wrong, then. Our relationship doesn’t work that way. We never go to bed mad at each other, and we never go to sleep without telling each other good night, so I have to pretend everything is fine and not like every part of my body is shattered and broken. I take a deep breath. Even though I want to cry and break down right here on my living room floor, I can’t, and I won’t. I keep telling myself over and over to be strong.