He doesn’t wait for me to respond to that. “In the meantime, Ricky will drive you to work, take you on your errands, and help you get wherever you need to go until—”

  “Until you decide the brakes are supposedly fixed?”

  “Until I’m sure that we’ll never have this conversation again,” he says. “Whenever you’re done thinking about making a mistake and can focus on building a family with me.”

  “I’m never having sex with you again, Nate.”

  “Then you’ll have yourself to blame for another problem down the line.” He returns to his seat, picking up his fork. “Can you pass the pepper, please?”

  I remain still, frozen.

  “Autumn, the pepper.”

  I’m tempted to pick up the shaker and throw it in his face, but I conceal my rage under a soft sigh. Then I swallow my hatred and slide the pepper his way.

  “Thank you for making everything about our marriage so much clearer.” I force myself to say.

  “I’m happy to do that for you anytime.” He clears his throat, returning to one of our usual scenes. “Would you like waffles in the morning?”

  “That would be nice.”

  Silence.

  Even though I hate the very sight of him at this moment—the very thought of uttering another word in his psychotic presence—I will myself to complete the next round of our dead-end marriage game.

  “How was your day today?” I ask.

  “Very good. I’m a week and a half away from closing that multi-million-dollar deal I mentioned to you months ago. Now that I think about it, I’m sure the additional windfall will come in handy whenever we’re ready to try for… you know.”

  I’ll never know.

  He feeds me the scraps of his nonexistent day—sans the mistress—and I stuff bites of food into my mouth whenever I need to. I never give him a glimpse of my entire hand—never let on that my escape plan has an escape plan.

  I’m not naïve enough to believe he wouldn’t take back “his” car once he found out that I wanted to leave.

  The duffle bags were for show, not tell.

  I may have been eighteen, young, and dumb when we married, but I’m not that girl anymore, and he’s stupidly unaware that he hasn’t seen the real woman I’ve become in years.

  For the rest of the evening, I play my role in what will be one of our final shows. I allow him to press a kiss against my cheek when he gets up to take a shower, and I even let him rub my back when he climbs next to me in bed.

  And as much as I want to, I don’t flinch or cringe when he runs his fingers through my hair.

  I’ve won and he’s lost, but I can’t tell him our game is over just yet. Because according to my mother, “A true winner knows how to delay the ultimate gratification…”

  End of Episode 6

  Episode 7

  Autumn

  Two weeks later

  If I’ve timed things properly, Nate should receive the divorce papers at the close of his celebratory lunch today, mere minutes after he’s completed his “multi-million-dollar deal” and told his colleagues that his “beautiful wife” wasn’t able to make it.

  And when he races to his car to call me in private, he’ll find a note taped on his steering wheel.

  Congratulations on the huge deal.

  I hope you know that I’m entitled to half.

  —Autumn

  P.S. You were wrong about me being laughed out of every lawyer’s parking lot. The top attorney in town took one listen to your rant that I secretly recorded over dinner, and he’s taking me on at one hell of a discount.

  P.P.S. I’ve taken everything I want out of the house already. Feel free to move in your mistress.

  Not a bad escape plan for someone with “only a high school diploma.”

  I pick up my car—a used black Audi I purchased behind his back last year—from my never-mentioned storage lot and take my time driving to my job at Crafts & Notes.

  My lawyer warned me that the financials of the divorce could take up to a year to be completed, so he suggested that I find “a more secure job in the meantime, preferably one with benefits.”

  I didn’t tell him that fixing instruments can be quite lucrative—just like I never told Nate—but I can understand his logic.

  Since it’s not consistent work, and my new hotel room isn’t cheap, I’ve notified all my clients that they’ll need to hold off on sending me anything new for a while.

  Unfortunately, Nate’s petty point about my lack of secondary education has a bit of truth to it. The only places that have returned calls for my unimpressive resume are a nanny agency, a private estate, and a dog walking service.

  It’ll be worth it in the end, Autumn...

  Pinning a name tag to my sweater, I head inside the store and clock in before making a beeline for the yarn aisle.

  I’m using my employee discount every day to hoard as many balls as possible until I have to move on.

  I grab a few shades of turquoise, beige, and yellow and make my way to the specialty scissors.

  “Autumn?” A shrill voice I can’t wait to forget stops me dead in my tracks. “Autumn, is that you?”

  Ugh, Julie. I turn around, taking in the sight of her pushing her stroller.

  “I thought that was you!” She smiles. “I can’t believe I caught you during work hours. I came in to buy my Daniel a wooden truck as a reward for not pooping on my floor this week. Exciting, isn’t it?”

  “It’s truly riveting.”

  “I was thinking that since you and Nate are doing so great that I could come by sometime and help you plan an extra little anniversary surprise.”

  “I gave him his extra anniversary surprise a little while ago.”

  “Well, maybe—”

  “It was divorce papers.” I smile. “I’m a weak and pathetic woman who is walking away from her terrible, dead marriage.”

  “What?” She looks as if she’s ashamed to be near me. “I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t do that. You made me think that you were on track to be a good person and remain as one of my married friends.”

  “Well, now I think that you should fuck off and worry about your own marriage,” I say. “Between focusing on your son’s literal shit and trying to get out of the house anytime you can, something tells me the state of your life may need a second look.”

  She sucks in a breath and glares at me, pushing her stroller past me and taking a parting elbow shot.

  I don’t bother retaliating.

  I head toward the paint aisle and stop at the sight of the sexiest man I’ve ever seen.

  Mister R is standing in front of the canvases, looking as if he’s been waiting for me. He’s dressed down today—trading in a custom suit for a pair of dark blue jeans and a white T-shirt that clings to his muscles in all the right places.

  A black tattoo snakes along his inner right arm, and as much as I want to step close to decipher it, I can’t help but get lost in the sea of his eyes again.

  All the yarn in my hand suddenly tumbles to the floor, and he picks the balls up one by one, keeping his eyes on mine as he places them on the shelf.

  Just like in the bathroom weeks ago, we stare at each other for several moments in silence. The tension and yearning between us is even more palpable than it was before.

  “Hello, Autumn,” he says, finally.

  “Do I need to file a restraining order?” is all I can think to say.

  “Probably.” He smiles. “I tend to research and follow up on the things I like.”

  “And if one of those ‘things’ doesn’t like you back?”

  “I’m pretty sure this one does.”

  Silence.

  “I haven’t seen you hiding behind any stop signs or following me on my route home lately,” he says, taking the lead. “I was beginning to think that you’d forgotten about me.”

  “I actually have forgotten.” My cheeks heat as he moves closer. “I move on pretty fast these days. Who are you again? Better yet, how did you already know my name?”

  He smiles a perfect set of pearly whites, but he doesn’t say anything further.

  “Autumn to the front for cashier shift!” The owner suddenly calls over the speakers. “Autumn, can you come to the front so I can take my smoke break?”

  I turn away from Mister R and make my way to the front, stopping at the edge of the counter.

  When I turn around, he’s right behind me and I’m inhaling the intoxicating scent of his cologne.

  “If you’re not here to buy anything,” I pause, unable to think clearly with him standing this close to me, “I have a job to do.”

  “I’m here to get something repaired by the luthier.” He points to the black violin case on the counter. “I would like him to restring and repair a crack by early next week, if possible.”

  “The luthier is a she. I mean, it’s me,” I say, and he looks somewhat impressed. “Instrument turn-ins are weekends only.”

  “I think I’m more than worthy of an exception.”

  “Because you think I’m attracted to you?”

  “No, I already know that you are,” he says, looking me up down. “It’s because there’s no one else in this store at the moment. Unless you want to count the bobbleheads by the register.”

  I blush and snap the sides of the case open, coming face to face with a beautiful maestro old spruce Stradivari—an advanced player’s violin.

  Running my hand along its maple side, I notice the rough and familiar engravings on the edge.

  For A.R.

  From E.R.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand at full attention.

  I repaired a different crack in this violin over a year and a half ago; my very first fix.

  The anonymous owner was so impressed that he quadrupled my fee and sent me six more, and shortly after, I had new instruments to fix every week. Mostly his, but a lot of others via word of mouth.

  He never gave me his name, always delivered his requests via courier with a short ‘Thanks’ note, and a woman always dropped off the payment without saying a word.

  Nothing more, nothing less.

  I look up at Mister R, and his expression confirms that he’s reached the same conclusion.

  “I believe this calls for another use of that term you tried to use previously.” He smirks. “What was it again?”

  I ignore that question. “What happened to using a courier service to get it to the store because you don’t like being out in public?”

  “I still don’t, but my assistant is sick and I’m shorthanded.” He moves closer, pushing a few strands of hair away from my face, setting every nerve in my body on fire. “I have an important question that I desperately need to ask.”

  “You don’t strike me as the type that waits for permission.”

  “Are you single yet?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” He glances at my left hand. “You wore your ring on the wrong finger at my party, and today you’re not wearing it at all.” He pauses, and I’m not sure whether I should be impressed or concerned by his attention to detail. “Any guy in his right mind would never want you to take it off if you were his, let alone allow you to get anywhere near me, so there must not be a steady relationship.”

  “There isn’t anymore, but I’m starting to think that your visit today is far from a coincidence.”

  “I just told you that I look into the things I like.”

  “Who’s the stalker now?”

  He smiles. “Let’s consider this part of my visit more of a necessary background check.”

  I raise my eyebrow, and he pulls a business card from his pocket.

  “I have to be extremely thorough when it comes to whoever I let in my house,” he says, placing it into the front pocket of my pants. “According to my advisor, a ‘Ms. Autumn Jane’ has an interview for a position at my estate next week, but that’s business for later. The initial intention behind my visit was personal.”

  I swallow. “You think that the first thing I should do after getting a divorce and starting my life over is give someone else a try?”

  “Only if the ‘someone else’ is me…”

  The bell over the door rings and a new customer walks inside, but neither of us turns away from each other.

  “Look,” I say. “I know you’re probably used to getting whatever you want—whenever you want—but the guy usually has to make the first move if he’s interested.”

  “I was planning to when I saw you at my party.” He lowers his voice, looking torn between taking me down on the spot and walking away. “You decided that you needed to leave.”

  “You agreed.”

  “I shouldn’t have.” He places a few hundred-dollar bills on top of the violin before closing what’s left of the gap between us. “Looking forward to your call.”

  “Do you have a first name that you want me to use, or should I just keep mentally referring to you as ‘Mister R’?”

  “No.” His lips curve into a smile. “I’ve never really appreciated my first name.”

  “You’re still not telling it to me.”

  “I’d prefer if you called me Ryder.”

  “I have a feeling that’s your nickname.”

  “It is.”

  “You’re making this extremely difficult.”

  “I promise it’ll be easy.” He trails a finger against my bottom lip, tracing every curve of my mouth. “It’s Edward.”

  “Edward Ryder?”

  “Edward Rochester.”

  Why does that sound like a name I’ve read somewhere before?

  “You probably have.” He reads my mind and moves his hand away. My body instantly longs for more of his touch.

  “I think it’s a conflict of interest for me to take an interview at your estate.” I can’t help but blurt out, now remembering that the person who called me to schedule it never gave me any details about the position. And he never mentioned anything about Mister R being the true client.

  “Then don’t bother coming,” he says. “I can easily find you via another coincidence.”

  “Is randomly showing up at my job what you had in mind when you said you’d ‘handle’ me at our next meeting?”

  “No, you’ll be under me whenever I do that.” He steps back and looks me over one last time. “I’ll be waiting… unless you take too long.”

  End of Episode 7

  Episode 8

  Autumn

  Five days later

  Raindrops tap dance against the front windows at Crafts & Notes, splattering and splashing to the sound of Chopin’s waltz.

  Mister R’s pickup appointment is minutes away, and I’m desperate to see his gorgeous face again. Desperate to rack up new inspiration for my late-night fantasies.

  I’ve longed to feel his lips against every inch of my skin, longed to know what it would feel like if his hands gripped my waist from behind while he fucked me, but I haven’t called to make it a reality.

  Not even once.

  I’ve clutched his business card between my fingertips, counted down from five to one, but the same two things always prevent me from taking things further.

  The unknown, and the not-so-subtle red flags.

  One or two of the latter wouldn’t normally be a problem, but the more time I have to separate his sexiness from his elusiveness, the more red flags appear.

  I’m currently up to ten…

  He knew my name before I knew his, he sparked instant fear in a security guard with just once glance, and he knew where I really worked.

  When I applied to work at his estate, I hadn’t yet added my job at Crafts & Notes to my resume. There’s no way he should’ve known that, and no way I qualified for any job—let alone one under him—with the ugly and sparse draft that I submitted.

  “I tend to research and follow up on the things I like…”

  The bell over the front door suddenly rings, pulling me out of my thoughts, and I check my reflection in a mirror one more time.

  I return to the counter as the sound of his shoes near and I suck in a slow breath as he approaches.

  He rounds the corner and…

  It’s not him.

  Not even close.

  It’s a grey-haired man who is wearing a pinstriped suit.

  “Welcome to Crafts & Notes.” I try not to sound disappointed. “How may I help you today?”

  “I have a pickup for my employer.” He pulls a card from his pocket and sets it on the counter.

  It’s the same card I’ve received several times before.

  Thank you.

  —E.R.

  He doesn’t wait for me to hand him the case. Instead, he walks behind the counter, over to the ‘repaired’ shelf, and checks for the violin.

  Then he says, “My employer says thank you,” before carrying it away.

  “Hey. Wait a minute,” I call after him, but he doesn’t stop. “Excuse me, sir?”

  He ignores me, pushing the front door open.

  “I’m trying to talk to you,” I say. “I know you can hear me.”

  He stops under the awning and lets up an umbrella. Then he slowly turns around to face me.

  “Yes?” he asks. “Did I leave something in your store?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I wanted to ask a few things about your employer, Mr. Rochester.”

  He gives me a blank stare.

  “I’m debating on showing up for an interview at his estate in a couple days, and I was just wondering if you could give me some insight on what he’s like.”

  He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, but he says nothing.

  “Is he a good boss?” I ask. “Does it pay well?”

  He opens his mouth as if he’s finally going to answer, but no words ever come.

  “I won’t tell him anything. I’m just curious.” I step a little closer and lower my voice. “Can you at least tell me if you enjoy working there?”

  “My employer says thank you,” he repeats the same sentence he gave me inside. Then he walks into the rain without another word.