What She Wants

This story had a contemporary setting, and it didn’t take long for him to get involved in the plot. Although the hero and heroine were hot for each other, something was standing in the way of their love—the business. Her family used to own it but now she only ran it. And the tycoon wanted to sell it out from under her.

As Jonathan read, he made notes on his iPad, treating the novel as if it were a college textbook, the same as he’d done with the other book he’d read. This particular hero seemed to have an overabundance of testosterone. He was strong and forceful, and while he and the heroine clashed—a lot—she seemed to appreciate that forcefulness. So, women wanted a man who was forceful, a take-charge kind of guy.

Jonathan added that attribute to the list he’d started. Forceful, take-charge. He could be forceful. Maybe.

* * *

Adam returned from his Alaskan adventure late Sunday night to make a shocking discovery. His key didn’t work in the lock. He wasn’t dreaming and he wasn’t drunk. This was the right house. His house. But his key didn’t work. Even finding the lock had been a pain since his wife hadn’t left the porch light on. What the hell?

He rang the doorbell.

No one came.

He rang again.

Still no one.

Chelsea’s car was there. What was going on? “Chels,” he called. “Chelsea?”

Finally the entry hall light went on and he saw the shadow of a slim body on the other side of the frosted glass panel. She must have fallen asleep.

That in itself was odd. She always waited up for him.

Now she was at the door but it didn’t open. And the porch light stayed off, leaving him standing there in the dark.

Her voice drifted out to him, muffled and distant. “Go away, Adam.”

What? “Let me in. My key won’t work.”

“It won’t work because I had the locks changed,” said the voice.

Maybe he was dreaming, after all. Or she was joking. “Okay, babe, you’ve had your laugh. Now open up.”

Instead of opening the door, she turned off the entry light and disappeared. “Chels!” He banged on the door. “This isn’t funny anymore. Open up.”

One neighbor was two wooded lots away and whoever had purchased the house next door hadn’t moved in yet. Still, he caught himself checking over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard. He felt like a fool standing there, demanding entrance into his own house. Changing the locks, that wasn’t even legal. But what was he going to do, call the cops? He’d wind up sleeping on the couch for the rest of his life.

This was nuts. He took out his cell phone and dialed her.

“What?” she answered.

What, indeed? Who was this snappish woman?

“Do you mind telling me what’s going on?” he asked.

An upstairs light went on and a window opened. Their bedroom. For a moment he saw her face, framed by the bedroom light. Chelsea had long, chestnut hair, big hazel eyes and Angelina Jolie lips. The lips weren’t smiling.

She held a box wrapped in white paper and tied with a pink ribbon. He recognized that box. And now she was going to... Oh, no. That was breakable. “Don’t—” he began.

Too late. She dropped it. The box landed with a crunch. So much for the candy dish the clerk at Mountain Treasures had convinced him to buy.

His wife had lost her mind. “What are you doing?”

A moment later, something else came fluttering down, like a poorly designed paper airplane—the card that went with the box.

“All right,” he said into the cell phone. “What was that all about?”

“Guess.”

“You didn’t want to give my mom anything for her birthday?”

Wrong guess. The call ended and the bedroom window slammed shut.

He called her again. “I don’t get it.”

“Does the number seven mean anything to you?”

Seven, seven. Crap! Their anniversary. Their anniversary was this weekend and he’d forgotten. “Shit,” he muttered.

“Yeah, that’s what you’re in,” she said. “It was bad enough you just had to stay up in Alaska and fish, but not to send flowers, not even call...”

“I called.” That was feeble. He’d left a message on voice mail telling her what time he’d be in. No mention of their anniversary.

Because he’d forgotten. Forgotten! What was wrong with his brain? A twenty-pound salmon, that was what. He felt sick.

“And then I found the package and thought you’d left it as a surprise.” Her voice was wobbly now, a sure sign that she was crying. “And what was it? Your mother’s birthday present. And her birthday isn’t until next week. And I already bought something because you never remember!”

He wouldn’t have remembered this year, either, except he’d been talking to his mom on his cell a few days ago and she’d dropped a hint when he happened to be downtown, walking past a shop. More than a hint. She’d come right out and said, “Your wife is not your personal secretary, Adam, and you should be able to remember your own mother’s birthday.”

Yeah, and he should’ve been able to remember his own anniversary, but he hadn’t. He’d stuck his mom’s present in the closet and forgotten about it. Just like he’d forgotten another important date. “I knew it was coming up,” he said. No lie. He’d planned to remember. Lame.

“This is the last straw. I’m tired of you taking me for granted. You do it all the time.”

“I do not,” he insisted, both to her and himself.

“Oh, yes, you do. And this isn’t the first time you’ve messed up.”

All right, so he’d accidentally gotten tickets to a Mariners game on the day of their anniversary the year before last. And she’d never have known he’d screwed up if his brother Greg hadn’t called from Seattle asking what time they were meeting at the stadium. He’d done penance and gotten her diamond earrings. A whole carat, for God’s sake. He’d even taken her to the game and they’d ended up having a great evening.

And last year he’d remembered. She hadn’t needed to remind him the week before. Why did women keep score like that? They kept track of every screw-up and then threw it in your face. In the middle of the night.

“Oh, come on, babe. Cut me some slack. Let’s talk about this.” She always wanted to talk.

Not tonight. She ended the call and the bedroom light switched off.

Of course he tried to call her once more, but it immediately went to voice mail.

Great. Just great. Where would he go at eleven-thirty at night? He supposed he could go to one of the town’s B and Bs, but if he did that, everyone would know his wife had kicked him out.