Chapter 13
2 YEARS, 4 MONTHS AGO
I pulled up to his house, the entrance lights glowing, illuminating the path as my car pulled forward, sensing the presence of a vehicle, more lights coming on, palm trees and stone coming to life in an orchestration that must have set Brant back a few hundred thousand. I pressed the garage door opener, my bay opening, and I parked. Waited for the door to shut, to stop the cold wind from whooshing in.
I left my shoes just inside, Brant’s level of clean OCD ridiculous. I walked through the silent house, waiting at the base of the stairs; my head tilted, and I listened. No sounds. He was probably downstairs.
I took the elevator, the doors quietly opening to an underground computer lab that rivaled Ironman’s in size and capabilities. His back hunched, bare under the fluorescents, pajama pants the only thing on his tall frame. Straddling a stool, he worked over a pile of wires, a loop on his head, his hands moving quickly, tools lined up beside him in neat order. I settled into the leather chair in the corner of the room. Tugged the blanket off the back of it and wrapped it around my body. Watched him work.
“Hey baby.” He didn’t turn, the clink of tools the only sign of his activity.
“Hey love.”
“I’ll be done soon.”
“Take your time. Mind if I put some music on?”
“Please. I adjusted the play tracks. Let me know what you think.”
I picked up the Laya, Brant’s latest prototype, a tablet that wouldn’t hit markets for another year. Opening the music center, I was instantly impressed. He had done more than adjust play tracks. The layout of the music center was completely different. I chose my mood: lazy. Drawing an abstract sketch with my finger, a lazy swirl with an occasional dot or skip of interest, I clicked play. It knew my touch, recognized fingerprints with the speed of a blink. And, within seconds, it was playing the exact song desired—a song I didn’t even know, but it was exactly what I wanted. Coldplay. The music flowed through speakers hidden along the walls, and I curled into the chair and watched the love of my life.
Love. It was no longer a strong word for our relationship. It was now the perfect word for our relationship. I loved this man. I could not imagine a life without him. He was the complement to my fears, a man firmly set into the trappings I desired, but with the independence and confidence to turn a blind eye to all of it. Together, we avoided the public life, had started a simple life of elegance, exploring the nuances of each other while enjoying the pleasures of which he had been gifted with. With this man, I could see the possibility of a family. A genuine life. Married and happy, without myself in the dominance of a man who wanted a trophy wife.
“Do you approve?” He didn’t turn, continued working.
“I approve,” I said softly. “You are brilliant, baby.”
“Thanks love.”
I watched him, the flex of his back, the way his muscles yawned when he ran his hands through his hair. Listened to the soft mutter of his words as he spoke to himself. Smiled as the room went dark, crescendos played against my skin, and I fell asleep against the soft leather.
I was woken by kisses. The drag of his hands across my skin as he pulled me down in the chair, my legs nudged open, the burn of his skin as my bare knees bounced against the hard muscle of his thighs. He shouldn’t be muscular. Shouldn’t have tan skin, cut arms, a defined chest. He should be pale. Scrawny. He spent twelve hours a day under fluorescents, before computers. But I didn’t question how God blessed him. Didn’t question how or why, especially not in moments like this.
