The Villain (Boston Belles, #2)(79)

My eyes widened. “On my period? Never.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

“Fine. Nipples it is.”

He didn’t stop until he made me come.

It was the first time I came like this.

One of many firsts my husband introduced me to.





While my home life was still far from blissful, it was resembling normalcy more and more every day. My husband was mine, at least for the time being.

I knew he wasn’t seeing other women.

That he was faithful and desired me.

Even Ash, Belle, and Sailor backed down from badmouthing Kill. Maybe it was because of the poker game they’d lost to him, or maybe they had noticed I’d been happier since moving into my husband’s house, but they seemed accepting of my new relationship.

Some nights, I would look out the window at a lone cloud and talk to Auntie Tilda. I’d tell her about my life. My job, my plans, my new marriage.

She always stuck around until I got sleepy.

Never sailed away before I said my goodbyes.

And so, I’d forgotten a very important lesson Auntie Tilda had taught me when I was younger.

I believed I could change my husband.

I was wrong.





It took a full month for Joelle Arrowsmith to pick up the phone and give me a call.

She explained her husband gave her my phone number and asked if I could help the twins for a few hours under her supervision. Trace letters and numbers with them.

“They fell a bit behind on the material. As you know, there are certain milestones they need to hit by the time they go to first grade,” she huffed over the phone.

I knew this well. As a pre-K teacher, my job was to teach children age four and five to use training scissors, know their letters and numbers, and sharpen their intellectual and physical skills so they’d arrive at public school equipped.

We agreed I’d come to their house the following Saturday. It worked well because Saturdays were my day to visit Greta Veitch, something I did religiously despite my husband’s disdain. I could easily slip out early and use the extra hours to spend time with Tinder and Tree.

It wasn’t like Cillian was at the house during the weekends.

He went to his ranch to spend time with his horses and never invited me. My husband always made his way back from the ranch to our house in time to consummate our marriage, but woke up extra early the next day to leave before I woke up. God forbid we’d have breakfast together.

I arrived at the Arrowsmiths’ house first thing Saturday morning. Joelle opened the door, her hair sticking out in every direction and bloodshot eyes, and waved me in.

“God, you look fresh as a daisy.” She sounded disappointed.

I laughed. “Well, I try to get eight hours of sleep every night.”

“The twins wake up several times a night to go to the bathroom and ask for water.”

“You need to sleep train them,” I said. “I can help you with that.”

She led me through a narrow, modern hallway painted in scarlet red. The Arrowsmiths lived in an up-and-coming, trendy Southie neighborhood. Their house resembled an actual home from the outside—deliberately humble—but inside, it still reeked of wealth. With granite flooring, crown moldings, and all the other eye-popping things the Fitzpatricks were so fond of.

Tinder and Tree jumped on me in unison, tackling me to the floor, excited to have a playmate.

“Children, please calm down. I apologize.” Joelle wove a hand disapprovingly at them. “The nanny is a middle-aged woman from France. See, we really wanted them to be bilingual. But she didn’t know what I meant. My eyes traveled to her designer shirt, which was not only stained, but inside out.

“Very.”

“Then I suggest you drop the French lessons and hire someone young and fun to do daily activities with them. Take them to swimming lessons or do cartwheels at the park. Teach them how to ride a bike and a scooter. Do things that would build their confidence.”

These kids looked thirsty for attention, conversation, and exploration. A second language was the last thing they needed. I got up from the floor and headed to the kitchen with the twins and Joelle following me as though they were the guests.

“Maybe you can do all those things with them,” Joelle mused, quickly losing her reservations. It took her a full month to come to terms with the fact she needed my help. After all, I was her husband’s enemy’s wife. Now that she took the leap, she figured she’d squeeze the hell out of the arrangement.

“I can do three times a week. Do they go to school?” I asked.

“Yes, but only until noon. Andrew works nonstop, and I am on the panel of three different charities and on the county board of supervisors. Not to mention, Andrew just signed another book deal. There’ll be a grand tour…”

I eyed her in disbelief. She gave her hair a toss.

“Don’t look at me like that. Andrew wants to run for mayor.”

“I see.”

I didn’t see anything, other than how this couple had their priorities all wrong.

“What’s your rate, anyway?” she asked primly.

“Twenty-five per hour,” I answered. She tilted her head, taken aback.

“Really? So little?”

I smiled. “It’s not so little for me.”