AN AFFAIR WITH MY HUSBAND (EIGHT)

— TOBIAS —

I decide to step outside for a short drive to clear my head. The clanking of plates from the dining table catches my attention, and I see Renee setting it up.

My heart skips a beat, despite the anger bubbling in my chest. She’s dressed up now, still alluring; her lips are pursed as she completes her task.

I quickly look away from her, turning to leave.

“Mr. Whitlock?” Renee calls, her faint Spanish accent making my surname sound almost thrilling.

“Yes? Umm…”

“Renee,” she supplies, though I feign forgetfulness. “Dinner’s ready, Mr. Whitlock.” She gestures to the table.

I nod slowly. “You can call Mrs. Whitlock; I’m not hungry,” I say, hoping to end this interaction.

She frowns slightly. “Mrs. Whitlock already had dinner and asked me to prepare this for you.”

“Oh. Well, I’m not hungry. You can clear the table and toss it away,” I reply dismissively, eager to escape. Her eyes make me feel vulnerable, and my instincts urge me to grab her and kiss her. I sound like a jerk.

Renee folds her arms, her tone firm. “You know there’s a difference between not having an appetite and being hungry, Mr. Whitlock. It would have been better if you had just said so before coming home. This meal didn’t just fall from the sky, you know?”

I blink, taken aback. She’s scolding me. I get her point, but I didn’t expect her to be so outspoken or to challenge my authority. Just as I’m about to speak, she turns and starts packing up the food, sliding a piece of roast beef into her mouth as she works. She’s got to be kidding.

I feel an urge to apologize, although I don’t know why—her anger is unsettling in a way I can’t explain.

“Maybe you should pay me for throwing food away. I get paid to cook, not to throw food away.” She grumbles.

“Hey,” I call, unable to restrain myself. Before I know it, I’m walking toward her, my body burning up as I try to avoid her gaze. “I didn’t mean to waste your time,” I admit, trying to keep my tone formal to create some distance between us.

Now I’m in front of her, and our height difference becomes apparent; I tower over her. She looks at me with those captivating eyes, one hand on her hip, a frown creasing her beautiful face.

“I’m, um... sorry,” I stammer, shocked by my own words and the smirk that plays on her lips. “I’ll eat it.” I’ve never really spoken to any domestic worker before, usually giving orders here and there, but suddenly I feel the need to engage with her, as if that might lighten the tension. If anything, it only makes it worse.

Her smirk transforms into a genuine smile that brightens my chest. She returns to arranging the plates, and my gaze falls to her waist, imagining holding her as she goes about her tasks.

She shrugs, stepping aside and gesturing toward the table. “Suit yourself, Mr. Whitlock.”

As I sit down to eat, I notice her cleaning up the kitchen. Every movement seems deliberate, as if she knows I’m watching even when I try not to.

The food is excellent—better than excellent, really. But I know it’s not just the meal that’s tightening my chest. It’s her. It’s the fact that she’s unabashedly herself, refusing to tiptoe around me like everyone else in my life. That, I realize, is the real problem.

Shortly after I finish, she approaches to collect the plates.

“Thank you,” I say, and she hums in response, placing a cup on the tray. I lean back in my chair and ask, “Have you... umm... eaten anything as well?”

“I’ll whip up something when I get to my apartment.”

“Apartment?”

“The flat at the back of the house.”

“Oh, now I feel guilty for not inviting you to join me.”

“It’s okay; I would have done the same if I were in your shoes.”

She’s being honest. Brutally honest—transparent, just like my first night with Anna.

My gaze instinctively drifts to her hands. She’s wearing gloves, her fingers long and slim. I’m so focused on her that she accidentally drops a bowl of ketchup; the residue splashes on my shirt, and she gasps.

“Shit, I’m so sorry.” She grabs a napkin from the table and tries to clean it up. I stand up. “It’s okay.”

“I should get that dry cleaned. I’m really sorry,” she apologizes again, genuine concern in her voice as she looks at the stain, then back at me.

One minute she’s scolding me, then she’s casual, and now she looks as if she accidentally stabbed me in the chest.

She reaches to dab at the stain with a towel, but I gently hold her wrist, and I notice goosebumps on her skin. Could she be reacting to me? We lock eyes, both reluctant to look away.

“Honey?” Anna’s voice interrupts, and I instantly let go of Renee. She turns back to her work as Anna’s footsteps approach.

“Good night, Mr. Whitlock. I’m sorry,” she says, hurrying to leave. Right on cue, Anna makes her presence known.

“Here you are. I’ve been calling for you.”

“I left my phone in the room,” I explain. I try to walk past her, but she blocks my path. I hear the back door close—Renee has returned to her apartment, but that isn’t my focus. My focus is here—on my wife.

“You don’t just get to walk out on me every time.”

“It’s pointless to talk to you, Anna. I have work tomorrow.”

“What in the world are you angry about? All because of a family dinner?”

“No. Because you keep making decisions without me, Anna. I’m always the last to know about everything—from family dinners to having a maid stay with us.”

Anna sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “If it’s the maid, I’ll just fire her.”

That statement inflames my anger. The thought of not seeing her around is too much to bear.

“She stays,” I say firmly, leaving no room for argument. “She’s not the problem here; just consult me before making decisions, for heaven’s sake.”

“How is that even a problem? I always update you eventually, don’t I? You’re just being paranoid.”

That’s it. She never understands. To avoid saying something I’d regret, I push past her and head straight for my study, locking the door behind me.