Chapter 39 Who’s That, Honey?
“Hey, husband.” Maggie’s smile was wide, genuine, eyes shining. She didn’t move from the doorway, five-foot-four frame small against the towering entrance, gaze locked on his face like she was drinking him in.
Silence stretched— thick, expectant. Wind rustled the pines behind him. Her smile held steady, soft, waiting.
Andrew tilted his head slightly. “You gonna let me in?”
“Oh— sorry!” Maggie laughed once— short, self-conscious— and stepped sideways, sweeping her arm in welcome. “Come in, come in.”
Andrew crossed the threshold. The door closed behind him with a heavy, final thud as Maggie pushed it shut and turned the deadbolt again— click. She followed close on his heels, bare feet padding softly against the cool marble checkerboard floor.
“Where are your bags?” she asked, voice lifting with curiosity as they moved deeper into the house, past the grand staircase’s sweeping curve.
“I traveled light.” Andrew kept walking, eyes forward, shoulders level. He didn’t turn to look at her.
Maggie’s steps faltered for half a beat, then hurried to catch up. “How was the trip?”
He didn’t give a response. He just continued to walk.
They reached the foot of the staircase— wide, floating treads of dark walnut rising toward the second-floor gallery. Andrew started up without breaking stride, hand trailing the smooth banister.
“I know you must have a lot of questions,” he said over his shoulder, voice even, measured. “And I promise I’ll answer the ones I can. But can we do it tomorrow? I’m tired. Just came back from a long trip.”
“Okay.” Maggie stopped midway up the stairs, one hand on the banister, the other clutching the belt of her robe. Her smile dimmed— just a flicker— but she nodded quickly. “Of course. Tomorrow.”
Andrew paused at the landing, glanced back down at her. The hallway light behind him cast his face in soft shadow, making his expression unreadable.
“See you tomorrow,” he said quietly.
“You too.” She forced the smile back, smaller now. “Good night, Andrew.”
"Night." He gave a single nod, then disappeared around the corner toward the master suite.
Maggie stood there another long moment— bare feet cold on the stair tread— listening to the faint creak of floorboards overhead, the distant click of a door closing. Her fingers tightened on the banister until her knuckles paled. Then she turned slowly, descended the stairs, and padded back toward the kitchen, the house settling back into its vast, expensive quiet around her.
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'HOURS LATER. BEFORE DAWN'
The master bedroom lay wrapped in pre-dawn stillness, heavy silk curtains sealing out the faint grey light that tried to creep through the woods beyond. The king-sized bed— four-poster mahogany, Egyptian cotton sheets in pale dove— held two bodies separated by an invisible gulf. Maggie slept on her side facing away, black hair fanned across the pillow in tangled waves, one arm tucked under her cheek, soft snores barely audible. The blanket rose and fell in slow rhythm over the curve of her hip.
Andrew’s eyes snapped open. No gradual waking. Just sudden, sharp awareness. He stared at the ceiling for three full heartbeats, then turned his head. His gaze landed on Maggie. His upper lip curled— subtle, involuntary— before he rolled his eyes hard enough that the whites flashed in the dim room.
“Gaud,” he hissed under his breath, so low the sound barely disturbed the air. “I forgot I’m back home.”
He sat up in one smooth motion, sheets pooling at his waist. Broad shoulders flexed once as he dragged a hand through his dark-brown curls, leaving them even more disordered. “What time is it?”
His phone lay face-down on the nightstand— black marble, gold-veined. He reached for it, thumb brushing the screen awake. Blue-white glow bloomed across his features, carving sharp shadows under his cheekbones, making him squint against the sudden brightness.
“Three-eighteen,” he whispered.
A notification badge pulsed red in the corner. Amelia. He tapped it open.
we made it safe back to my place. i just tucked pete to bed. call me when you see this message
Andrew’s mouth softened. The hard line of his jaw eased. A small, real smile tugged one corner of his lips upward.
“Thank you, baby,” he breathed. “I love you.”
“Who is that?”
Maggie’s voice— groggy, thick with sleep— cut through the quiet like a blade. Andrew’s body jerked once. Phone slipped from his fingers, clattered softly onto the mattress. He slapped it face-down in the same motion.
“Woo! You startled me.” His laugh came out forced, too loud in the hushed room.
Maggie rolled halfway onto her back, blanket slipping to expose one bare shoulder. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand, black lashes fluttering. “Who’s that, honey?” She cleared her throat, voice still rough. “I thought I heard you talking to someone.”