Sidebarred: A Legal Briefs Novella(17)

Her jaw is clenched and her chin is high—and if I wasn’t genuinely f*cking furious, I’d be really turned on right now.

“I’m not quitting my job, Jake.”

“You already have.”

“I’m not quitting my job, Jake.”

My voice goes soft, dropping to a lethal whisper. “Let me make this crystal clear. If that f*cker gets within twenty feet of you ever again, I will put him in the ground. You’re not going back there. Period.”

Chelsea’s arms flail out to her sides and she yells, “Who are you?”

“I’m your husband.”

“Really? I don’t remember exchanging rings with a f*cking caveman!”

I lean down over her, almost nose to nose. “Then you weren’t paying close enough attention.”

She glares up at me for a few seconds; then she closes her eyes and breathes deep, stepping back. When she focuses on me again, the fury has faded—replaced with something more dangerous. Resentment.

“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”

“I’m completely calm. You’re the one pitching a fit. And apparently you can’t f*cking talk to me at all.”

It seems I’ve got some resentment issues of my own. Brent would say this is healthy—getting it all out in the open. That theory can go suck a dick.

Chelsea’s hand goes to her stomach—to the bump—rubbing circles. She takes another deep, cleansing breath. “The kids have homework, we have to start dinner, Rosaleen’s piano teacher will be here any minute. We’ll finish this later.”

She moves around me to the door but stops when I call her name.

“Chelsea. It’s already finished.”

She hisses at me through clenched teeth, “God, you are such an * sometimes!”

“Whatever.”

After that, we do our best to ignore each other the whole f*cking night.

****

Dinner? Done.

Dishes? Clean.

Kids? Asleep. Or at least, pretending to be, which works for me.

Chelsea and I share the bathroom sink space, brushing our teeth, our arms moving in matching, violent jerks, both of us avoiding the mirror and instead glaring at the faucet like it insulted our mother.

I finish first, walk into the bedroom, strip down to boxer briefs, and slide between the cold sheets. A minute later the bathroom light goes out, and I watch, through the moonlit, shadowed room, as Chelsea walks around to the other side of the bed. She climbs in—staying as far away from me as she possibly can without actually falling off the mattress.

I stare at the ceiling, one arm slung above my head, listening to the sound of her tense, harsh breaths. And God, I know it makes me sound like a *—but I want to hold her. As frustrated as I am with her ridiculous stubbornness, as infuriated as I feel about the entire f*cking debacle . . . I love her.

It’s a constant, living, needy thing inside me. My arms twitch with the urge to pull her close, to feel her, warm and supple against me.

My voice comes out in a gentle, jagged whisper.

“Chelsea . . .”

Slowly, she turns on her side, facing me. We watch each other in the darkness for a few seconds, then she insists softly, “Our discussion is not over.”

“Okay.”

“And I’m going to be really mad at you again in the morning.”

My hand finds her jaw, stroking, before moving through her hair. “I can live with that.”

She gives me a tiny nod, and then—she moves in close, resting her head on my chest. I wrap my arm around her, holding tight. And there’s a small comfort in the idea she needs this every bit as much as me.

“I love you, Chelsea.”

Her sigh is long but not ungrateful.

“I know. I love you, too.”

There’s a weighted pause, and then she adds, “Even when you’re being an *.”

Yep. I can totally live with that.

****

The next morning, our midnight truce is most definitely off. Our mornings are busy—crazy—and that’s never truer than on a school day. I get the kids up. They’re dressed and almost fed by the time Chelsea walks into the dining room.

Wearing a pretty, dark-green sheath dress and matching blazer. Dressed for work.

From the chair at the table, my eyes rake over her.

“Nice outfit.”

She smiles tightly. Determinedly. “Thanks. It’s new. Maternity clothes have come a long way since Rachel was pregnant.”

I cock a questioning brow. “Do you have a job interview lined up already?”

And her nostrils flair. “No. I have a job. I’m dressed to go to it.”

At some point during the night, I decided I wasn’t going to fight with her anymore. She’s f*cking pregnant—only an honest-to-goodness coldhearted prick would upset his pregnant wife, and I’ve put a lot of effort through the years into not being that.

So I nod. Take out my cell phone and dial Brent’s number. And as I speak to him, my gaze doesn’t waver from my wife’s stubborn face.

“Hey. Listen—I’m supposed to be in court today at ten and I’m not gonna make it. Can you stand in for me? Request a continuance?”

Chelsea flinches at the question.

After Brent responds in my ear, I tell him, “Yeah, exactly. Thanks—I owe you.”