Love Changes Everything (Romance on the Go Book 0) Read online

  “Not the worst thing then. And your wife is lovely. She’s sweet and charming, regardless of … what transpired to bring about your union.”

  Beck couldn’t argue. Having sex with Grace was no hardship, and he took pride in his skills in bed. Never left her unsatisfied, and if anything was true, it was the old adage that sex leveled the playing field, because his wife definitely met his physical needs. Another lick of shame lashed him when he thought about how he’d shamelessly used her desperate need to please him. Teaching her—he clamped down on that thought. “I suppose she is. She is.”

  “And you appear to have your cake and eat it too.”

  “Excuse me?” That faint lecturing tone was back in his friend’s voice, atop of the idiom.

  “You are continually photographed in public with beautiful women on your arm. Women who aren’t your wife.”

  Beckett shook his head. “Smoke and mirrors, Kamil.”

  “As you say.”

  It was true. The public perception be damned because he was faithful to Grace, monogamous. His father accepted his contention when he’d inquired and presumably passed it on to his wife’s father because he hadn’t been given any grief from that quarter. Though old man Langdon ascribed to the idea of having a mistress—if one could guarantee discretion, of course.

  One might think that even as a married man Beck would sample the buffet of willing women, but he hadn’t. He wasn’t that kind of guy anymore. Nope, just one who avoids all the responsibilities of marriage, other than the physical ones. Shit. Those vagrant thoughts and pricks of conscience were coming more and more often, and he resented the hell out of them. He scrambled to shore up that figurative wall.

  “You know the business, Kalim. It’s expected of me to have those models out and about. And I, too, have honor.” He did. Maybe he didn’t always exercise it with Grace, but he wasn’t a cheat.

  “I know that about you, Beck. But one must consider the optics. How does Grace feel about you squiring all those women?”

  He shrugged, shockingly aware of a shard of anxiety in his gut. “I have no idea. I told you, we live quite separately. And she’s never expressed any interest. I doubt she has any idea.”

  Silence stretched out and Kalim’s face tightened. “Women seem to know far more than we foolish men understand. But as you say. However, we should discuss your perception of the future, my friend.”

  “What?”

  “I fear you’re stuck in the present, and quite miserable.”

  “Maybe.” He didn’t want to think past tomorrow. Grace would hopefully conceive again soon, and he’d be free of expectations. Then maybe he’d pick up his life where he’d left off. Except he wanted a child and he wanted the mother of that child—sexually, anyway.

  “I enjoy my current situation and all its opportunities, Beck, but you seemed so happy about Grace in the beginning. Perhaps your wounded pride has spent enough time railing at the situation. Especially if you were to become a father.” Kalim was the youngest son, and as such, his father’s expectations were less clear, and his friend did indeed enjoy the bachelor life.

  But further to his pointed comment, did pride have a place in parenting? Was Kalim suggesting Beck was acting in a juvenile manner? If the shoe fits… With that sudden realization, all the implications of his current situation washed over like an icy surge of water. At the forefront was his reluctant acceptance that he’d been acting like a total asshole. A vastly immature asshole.

  It had obviously taken this long for him to get past feeling trapped while ignoring the truth, but it kept popping up to stare him in the face. Kalim’s insightful questions and comments were falling on fertile ground.

  Regardless of how his marriage had come to pass, the familial expectation was that he and Grace were to produce children, and he hadn’t bothered to consider the impact on those children. Immersed in his resentment of feeling manipulated, he’d been selfish. She hadn’t called him on it, instead, reaching out, trying to forge a connection, so who was the injured party here—

  “Beck?”

  “We should have had this talk months ago,” he muttered.

  “We did. And you did nothing but rant and rave about your … situation,” Kamil reminded him, confirming the fact he was only now seeing the forest for the trees. “And you most certainly weren’t open to considering anything other than gaining your freedom without impacting your business interests. Until tonight.”

  “Is that a polite way of telling me I’ve been an idiot?” Infusing some humor didn’t ease the sting of the truth.

  “Outrage at being snared and forced into a union not of one’s choosing, feeling so powerless, is difficult to swallow, my friend. At least in my country, both men and women are raised to expect an arranged marriage, though usually without the circumstances of a child on the way. But one must make the best of any situation, and you’ve had considerable time to come to terms with it. And you might want to consider your wife’s perspective. She, too, may well feel trapped.”

  Beck considered his friend’s words. It wasn’t optimal, but Beck could now admit to the likely possibility Grace could have been his forever girl, had their connection progressed normally and she hadn’t lied about being on birth control. If he hadn’t known differently, he might have thought his father-in-law had put her up to it, catching a guy that way.

  Despite his anger with her, it was apparent to anyone with eyes in their head how George Langdon perceived women in general, even his daughter. Keeping a mistress aside, the man saw his daughter as a means to an end. Beck’s own parent wasn’t much different. The glass ceiling in both of those men’s businesses was thick and impervious to the female gender, something Beckett was subtly addressing. His hypocrisy made him flinch.

  Manning up, he said, “Maybe you can hang out your shingle, Kamil.”

  “My shingle?”

  “Marriage Counselor. Grace and I can be your first couple.”

  Kamil laughed. “Unlikely, but professional input might not be such a bad idea. From everything I understand, trust is intrinsic in a marriage, much like having a business partner, and you might give a thought to repairing that breach.”

  Grace was his business partner, now that he thought about it, one with benefits. Not the worst way to approach the future—a framework to resurrect a marriage on. He’d broach the subject with her tomorrow and hammer out an agenda by which they might move forward. He needed to forgive her or divorce her because both of them deserved a life different from the one he’d imposed.

  “I’ll be in touch, Kamil.”

  “You can name your first born after me.” His friend’s handsome features sobered. “I apologize. That was insensitive.”

  Beckett mastered a flinch. “No problem, buddy. Rebecca awaits.”

  “Becky. She’s rebelling. She thinks the diminutive makes her more Western.” With a smile, Kamil reached out and the screen went blank.

  Beck stood, lowering the lid on the laptop and closed his eyes. He felt resolute, determined, and hoped it carried over to the morning. Grace loved him—she’d told him often enough, and had tried hard to connect with him in the beginning, after the betrayal. And when he’d established the boundaries in their marriage, she accepted them, ghosting around the place, never causing a hint of difficulty. She’d doubtless welcome any effort on his part to improve their … relationship. He wasn’t a total asshole. Or at least he wouldn’t be from this point forward.

  Chapter Two

  Grace woke with a start. The faint rays of early sunshine skittered through the leaded panes of the crescent window cut high in the east wall as she established her husband’s absence.

  There had been a few times in the past when she’d awakened, finding herself plastered up against his solid chest, his spicy scent enveloping her, muscled arm holding her close. But he’d always moved away within moments of waking, without a word, leaving her adrift with an acre of bed between them. A silent reminder—and a reproach—of the true sta
te of their marriage.

  Whatever possessed her the night before still held sway that morning because she didn’t experience that horrible wash of pain at the memory of rejection.

  Normally, she would hear him get up, leave their bed to shower and get ready for the day. In her usual, pathetic, passive way, she’d watch him choose his clothes and get dressed, shooting covert glances at him from between her lowered lashes. Yearning for a kiss goodbye that was never offered. He never kissed her anymore, not even in the throes of passion, at least not on the lips, and she had no difficulty interpreting that message.

  She’d gotten up with him during the first months of their marriage, heading to the kitchen to make his breakfast, doing her best to send him off to work with as much cheerfulness as she could muster. But Beckett had disdained her efforts, ignoring her for the screen of his phone or tablet, until she finally gave up.

  After she lost the baby, he’d been kind and supportive, like the man she remembered, and she’d been grateful, past the shock and numbness. But, back home, he’d reverted to type and she had no energy to pretend any longer, and he never asked her to join him for the morning meal. Nor any other. The number of dinners she’d prepared, only to learn he hadn’t planned to eat them, coming home to change and leave again. To take other women out. The callous disregard by the two men in her life had been her lot, but that was all in the past. Something had changed deep inside of her and she welcomed it with a fierceness she’d never experienced.

  Clambering off the mattress, she hurried to the bathroom and moved quickly through her morning routine. The shower was still damp from Beckett’s use, his towels tossed carelessly on the floor. Stepping over them, she smiled at her own daring and entered the tiled enclosure, turning on the water. Time for the man to pick up after himself.

  Drying off, she bundled her hair into a ponytail, grimacing as it dripped down her back before she squeezed a thick towel over the unruly curls.

  Even thinner than before her marriage, she viewed her small breasts dispassionately as she fastened a bra, although they hadn’t shrunk that she could tell. She somehow carried a little weight on her backside—junk in her trunk, if she recalled her friend Charity’s words correctly—but the matching panties covered her buttocks without revealing any of that flesh.

  Beck had loved her shape, or so he insisted, despite the sexy and beautiful women he spent time with, past and present. He still seemed to like her body and that made everything worse because he most certainly didn’t like what it contained.

  She ran her fingers over a motley supply of makeup, hesitating before closing the drawer of the vanity. Looking like a ghost wasn’t attractive, but then who was she hoping to impress? Maybe she’d get a makeover, too. A whole new start. Her belly roiled uneasily, as if in protest, and she reminded herself to grab an orange or a banana on her way out the door. Coffee was her norm, but she didn’t want to wait for the maker to brew. Besides, she had lost her taste for it, along with so many other things in her life.

  Donning a pair of jeans and t-shirt, she then ran down the steps, taking a moment to grab that banana, and then snagged her purse from the hall closet. She checked for her keys and her fingers brushed her phone and her wallet. All set.

  After disarming the security system, she opened the door, leaving it ajar before punching the code back in and then slipped outside and shut it. Feeling like a giddy child, she hustled to her car, backing it out of the drive with newfound confidence, heading down the street. Beck had purchased the mid-size import without any input from her, but she liked the pale-blue color and the way it handled.

  After driving for several miles, she saw a likely sign, finding a parking space within easy walking distance, not that she objected to exercise. It was just that her knees felt strangely weak… Perhaps anyone going into the battle of their lives experienced the same sensation.

  Upon entering the foyer of the office, she walked up to the desk where a motherly looking woman sat, a headset clamped to her white hair.

  “May I help you?” The woman’s eyes were anything but motherly, summing Grace up in a quick glance.

  “This is a divorce lawyer’s office?” The ‘d’ word tasted foul on her tongue, but she spat it out.

  “Divorce and family law.”

  “I’m only interested in the former.” She amazed herself with how crisp and confident she sounded. Determined.

  Head tilting to the side, the speculative glint increased in the other woman’s eyes. “Mr. Harper won’t be in until nine thirty and he has court at ten.”

  She should have made an appointment. Aware the receptionist was staring avidly at her wedding ring set, Grace eased her hand behind her purse, battling with a sense of deflation. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  A warm smile replaced the glint. “No bother, Mrs….”

  “Kilmer. Grace Kilmer.” Soon to be Langdon again, she hoped, although perhaps she could choose a new surname, something indicative of the status she craved. That of freedom and new beginnings, a clean break from both Beckett and her father.

  “If you can come back this afternoon, he can see you at three.”

  What was she going to do for the next five-plus hours? But finding another lawyer who could see her right away would probably mean a wait time too. She nodded her head and accepted the card with the appointment inked on it. “Thank you.”

  She ate her banana on the way back to the car, dropping the peel into a handy trash can, fighting the absurd impulse to throw her rings in after it. Instead, she worked them off her finger and zipped them into a compartment in her purse. Her gaze scanned the area and a bright pink sign caught her eye. She moved in that direction, drawn steadily by the promises written on it.

  When she entered the premises, unlike the lawyer’s office, no motherly woman with hard eyes greeted her, but rather, an amazingly beautiful blonde gave her a welcoming smile.

  “Good morning! How can I help you?”

  “I’d like … the works.” She sounded like a baked potato or a hot dog, but she had a lot of time to kill.

  “Uh, can you be more specific?”

  “Your sign says manicures, pedicures, waxing, makeovers, hair styling.”

  “The works.” The blonde winked and giggled. “When would you like to schedule the works?”

  “It said walk-ins welcome.”

  “So it does. Let me check.” Flipping through a large calendar, the other woman made notations on various pages and treated Grace to another smile. “We can even squeeze you in for a massage.”

  “I need to be finished and out the door by two forty-five.”

  “We’ll make it work.”

  Grace decided she liked the blonde, whose name was Sophie, according to the name tag affixed to her large left breast—or at least the fabric covering said breast. And the right one was just as large, for balance. She choked back a pained chuckle. Sophie possessed a tall, slender frame and her body and those big boobs reminded her of all those women Beckett was seeing—minus the sweet smile.

  She followed Sophie into the back and obligingly removed her clothing before slipping into a robe to prepare for the full body wax. The other woman advised her she’d get a soothing body wrap and massage immediately thereafter. Followed by a mani-pedi and then given the attention of the stylist who also did the makeovers. The works. It sounded exhausting but she needed distractions and the company of others.

  She placed an order for a sandwich and iced tea for later, in that a lunch break was out of the question, and settled in to wait for her waxing. Closing her eyes and willing her body to relax as she lay on the narrow table, she drew in deep breaths and released them, focusing on the soothing music that filled the room. Thinking about exactly nothing but a future she’d carve out on her own.

  A few hours later, fortified by her light meal, she sat in the stylist’s chair and tried to forget about the trauma of having her legs, underarms, and brows waxed by a determined older lady—call me Wilma—a
nd definitely decided not to focus on the “tidying” of her nether regions. Dear Lord, but that hurt, even if it did feel intriguing now. Kind of exposed. An awareness… Too bad Beckett wouldn’t be getting near her again or she might have explored that awareness.

  Her artfully painted finger and toenails in a winsome, pinky coral were far easier to contemplate, as was the silkiness of her feet and hands. The massage had also helped to reduce the tension that she carried within her entire body.

  “I’m Sherry.” A curvy redhead lifted Grace’s pale mane with practiced hands. “You have a ton of hair here. And a lot of natural curl. I haven’t seen a true ash-blonde for years.”

  So that was what the color was—Grace just thought it was drab. “I know. But I wear it long so I can tie it out of the way. If it’s short I can’t do anything with it.” And I look like Bozo the Clown minus the red shade.

  “When did you last wear it short?”

  “Grade seven?”

  “Huh. Well, haircuts for curly hair have come a long way since then. What, about seven years?”

  “Eight.” She’d married right before her twentieth birthday, but she hadn’t spared Beckett a thought all day—not really—and she wasn’t going to start now. It was as if she’d evolved into some kind of shiny creature, all surface. One that fit in with waxes and wraps and polish.

  Sherry showed her pictures and made promises Grace wanted to believe and told the stylist she would hold her to before agreeing to a cut. Her mane was drawn into a tail on her neck and a crunching of scissors dispensed with several inches of it. She wanted to vomit but sipped her iced tea instead.

  She stared dubiously at the thin strips of foil the stylist wrapped around pieces of hair, Sherry telling her the highlights would be subtle and “lift” her natural color. One could only hope the current alien look would transpire into something attractive.

  “I’m not letting you watch. You’ll just worry,” Sherry advised, following the washing and conditioning.

  After the incredible scalp massage, Grace would have agreed to anything. “Okay. But I have to leave in just over an hour.”