“I have to take this.”

He leaves the room, and I can’t hear much of his side of the conversation except for a few comments like “that motherfucker” and “we’ll never concede.” Neither of those two sentiments indicate he’s enjoying the phone call.

While he’s gone, I polish off the rest of my steak and salad, and one of those jumbled song lyrics from earlier starts nagging at me. I’m at the desk, scribbling away on a pad of paper, when Creighton returns.

His hair is sticking up in the front, as if he’s been jamming his fingers into it over and over. Just one more sign it wasn’t a good phone call.

This is where a real wife stops what she’s doing and asks what’s wrong. I finish off the lyric and decide to give that wife thing a try.

“What’s up?” Okay, admittedly it’s not the most brilliant of conversation starters, but it’s open ended, and I’m inviting him to share what all the cursing was about.

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

And there it is—the difference between this marriage and one where the spouses are actually trying to make a connection. Something about it breaks a little piece inside me. A piece of what, I refuse to speculate.

“Oh, you don’t say. Darling, that’s awful. I wish there was something I could do to help.” My babbling, batshit-crazy response earns me a sharp look from Creighton. “What? I’m trying to pretend that I’m a wife whose husband actually just shared something in his life, and I give a crap.”

His look, if possible, gets sharper. But it’s his words that surprise me the most. “You really want to know?”

“Lay it on me, hubs. I’m living dangerously tonight,” I drawl, letting my accent loose.

Creighton crosses the room to the desk and leans against it so he’s facing me, his thigh only inches from my arm. Which means his dick is probably only a foot from my mouth, and I can’t help but think about dessert.

I tear my eyes away from his package, which is displayed rather prominently in his jeans, and meet his dark brown stare—a stare that’s still narrowed on me. He’s taking my measure, gauging my actual interest in what he’s dealing with.

I decide to make it easy for him. “All sass aside, I really am here if you want to talk about what’s going on.”

Something flashes through his expression, but before I can pin it down, it’s gone.

“That was Cannon.”

“Okay,” I say, prompting him to continue.

“We have an activist shareholder causing trouble. He’s getting the street wound up about the company’s business strategy, and he’s demanding changes as well as additional independent directors on the board to balance the decision-making.”

I’m following him, but most of this means nothing to me.

“What exactly is an activist shareholder?”

“Someone with enough of a stake in the company that we have to take him seriously when he makes a big public stink. It’s an inflammatory way of trying to effect change in the way the company does business.”

“Okay.” I consider his explanation for a beat. “Isn’t that kind of par for the course in your business?”

He nods. “Yes, but in this case it’s even more of a nuisance because the activist shareholder is also my uncle.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Your uncle?”

His smile is grim. “Yes. The uncle who was responsible for my upbringing from the age of ten to eighteen.”

I like words, mostly because I like to twist them into songs that convey some kind of emotional reaction. Creighton, I’ve come to notice, chooses his words carefully. He didn’t just say the uncle who raised me.

“I’m assuming you’re not close.”

“You’d assume right. He made his money in the foreign currency exchange markets, and then got an ego boost when I did the same thing—regardless of the fact that he didn’t teach me a damn thing himself. Once I took my company public, he decided he wanted a big enough piece of it to piss me off.”

“It sounds like your relationship is . . . complicated.”

A muscle in Creighton’s jaw ticks. “You could say that.”

“So, is this the kind of trouble that’s just annoying? Or is it serious?”

Creighton shifts, crossing his arms over his chest. “In all honesty, I’m not entirely certain yet. Up until now, he’s just been a nuisance—demanding that I start selling off some of the businesses the company owns, which is something I refuse to do to silence him. But now, suffice it to say he’s trying alternative tactics.”

Once again, I dissect Creighton’s words carefully. What he isn’t saying is coming through just as strongly.

“Do these alternative tactics have something to do with me, or us getting married?”

Creighton’s chest lifts and falls on a breath. “He’s finding some ammunition in that, yes.”

I’m actually surprised by his candid answer. I expected him to dodge the question altogether.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Unlike a few minutes earlier, I’m not being sassy in the slightest. If there’s something I can do to help, I will—and not just because Creighton’s name being dragged through the mud now means that my name is being muddied as well.

“I’ll figure it out.” He looks at me. “But thanks.”

I start to shrug but it turns into a yawn. “Just holler if there’s anything you think of.”

Creighton studies me. “You’re tired.”

It’s not a question, but I reply anyway. “Yeah, first show after a break. It’s easy to forget how exhausting it is. Not to mention the rehearsal, sound check, meet and greet, and everything else.”

“Then I guess you should call it a night.”

“I need to be in Dallas by noon for a radio interview. I hope that’s not an issue.”

He shakes his head slowly. “Not an issue. It’s a quick flight. We’ll be there in plenty of time.”

“Okay then.” I push the chair back from the desk and stand, tugging the belt of the robe tighter and staring at my silver-polished toenails. I glance up at Creighton. “I guess I’ll just be going to bed.”

I take a hesitant step toward the bedroom, waiting for him to grab me by the belt, yank me against his chest, and growl something about me forgetting about his dessert.