Shame
a secrets and lies novel
Ainsley Booth
Contents
1. Grace
2. Luke
3. Grace
4. Luke
5. Grace
6. Luke
7. Grace
8. Luke
9. Grace
10. Luke
11. Grace
12. Luke
13. Grace
14. Luke
15. Grace
16. Luke
17. Grace
18. Luke
19. Grace
20. Luke
21. Grace
22. Grace
23. Luke
24. Grace
25. Grace
26. Luke
27. Grace
28. Luke
29. Grace
30. Luke
31. Grace
32. Luke
The Art/Lit Project
Also by Ainsley Booth
About the Author
About This Book
Grace:
I never thought my husband would cheat on me. I was wrong.
Now I need to pick up the tattered remnants of my life and figure out how to put one foot in front of the other. How to look at myself in the mirror without seeing my own secrets scrawled there in shameful scarlet.
Luke:
I am exactly the asshole you think I am.
I don't deserve her. I should walk away. But I can't let her go without a fight. Too late—too damn late—I'm realizing what I've done and everything that I've lost.
Everything I want back again, or maybe really to have and to hold properly for the first time. In order to stay with Grace and win her back, I'm going to need to storm through fire, over and over again.
Shame is a standalone romance about Grace and Luke. There is a companion book about Luke’s brother, Sam, called Tempt. The Secrets and Lies duet is now complete.
Content warnings for both books are available at www.ainsleybooth.com/secrets-and-lies-duet/
You can’t help who you love
If you want to leave him, leave him. Be happy. You deserve that. But if you are tied to him inextricably—for your own reasons, not his, never his—then take this to heart. You have a right to be happy. You have a right to break him, as he has broken you, and maybe from the ashes something new and good will come. On your terms, you beautiful goddess. Forever. And he can take it or leave it. You have all the power now. Use it wisely. Use it for yourself. Use it for the truth.
1
Grace
I never thought my husband would cheat on me.
I was sure of it.
I was wrong.
Luke: Are you going to be home for dinner?
Grace: Should be.
Luke: I’ll pick something up.
Grace: No red meat!
Luke: I know. Love you!
Grace: Love you, too.
“I’m hopping in the shower. I gotta head out for a bit.”
“Where are you going?”
“I told you, I have a thing.”
I frown. I don’t remember him mentioning an event. “Is it something you need me for?”
“Nope. Just a meeting. I won’t be long, but don’t wait up.”
I never do. As I’ve moved into my thirties, I’ve decided I like going to sleep early and waking up early to get a workout in before I start my day.
Luke, on the other hand, is a confirmed night owl.
When we were first married, we’d stay up late together, until I got sleepy, and then he’d tuck me into bed and read beside me while I fell asleep. I don’t remember the last time he did that, but really, if he did, I’d just get annoyed, because then I wouldn’t be able to read something dirty and get myself off.
A quick, efficient orgasm is better than any sleeping pill ever invented. And while I love sex with Luke, there is no such thing as a quick orgasm with him. And lately, sometimes there’s no orgasm at all.
When the stars align, though, sex is fantastic. It still takes a while, though. Luke has a rule—I always come first, and preferably twice. You’d think this would be a great rule. It’s the stuff of internet memes. But it’s actually more pressure than I want, and he won’t be dissuaded of it. Just fucking use my body as a receptacle for your come is not something my husband will ever understand.
Nor is it something I could ever say with a straight face. Not without bursting into flames. This is on my mind as he moves towards the en suite bathroom adjacent to our bedroom. I catch his hand and tug him close, wanting his bulk against me. He kisses me softly and brushes past instead. No bulk. No hot kiss.
I sigh at his retreating back, but he doesn’t notice.
He disappears into the bathroom, and I turn around again, catching sight of his phone on the bed. “Hey, baby, you forgot your—”
But the shower’s already on.
The screen lights up. There’s a text message notification on the screen.
Spitfire
Text Message
Spitfire. Who the hell would be in his phone book as Spitfire? My pulse starts to pound as I stare at the screen. The locked screen.
He has a thing tonight?
And a text message from someone named Spitfire?
Fingers shaking, I tap the home button. The password screen slides into view. Fucking hell, I don’t know what it is.
On a whim, I try his bank card pin code. That’s what I use, and we’re so alike…
It works.
From a distance, I feel myself smiling, but it feels wrong, because I know what I’m about to find.
Somehow, deep down inside, I know exactly what Spitfire is. I don’t know who she is, but I know she’s my husband’s lover.
And I know my heart is about to break.
2
Luke
My back is tight, and the hot water isn’t helping. I should cancel drinks with Caitlyn tonight.
I won’t, though.
Rolling my neck, I scrub soap over my chest and down my belly.
I need to go back to the fucking gym.
I need to stop eating McDonald’s.
I need to do a lot of fucking things, but I won’t, and I don’t.
Dark, ugly thoughts crowd the back of my mind, and I turn the temperature of the shower down. Cold, sharp drops hit my skin.
That’s good. Sharp, intense.
A lot like Caitlyn.
My dick twitches, and I will it to work tonight. Hold her down, fuck her mouth until she gags. Yeah, that would feel amazing.
I turn the shower off and reach for the towel I put on the hook just outside the walk-in shower.
It’s not there.
“Grace,” I holler out, ignoring the way my stomach twists.
I’ve gotten good at shoving that weird twinge away.
She doesn’t respond, so I walk around the corner, water sluicing off me. Maybe I left it on the—
But I didn’t.
My towel is in Grace’s hand. She’s perched on the vanity, a little bird, clutching the towel. And my phone.
Her face is white.
“Who is Spitfire?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper.
My heart stops.
The pain on her face surprises me. I don’t know why. I’ve been cheating on her and she’s just found out.
I put that pain there.
But that realization is like an out-of-body thought, totally disjointed from the desperate, clawing question hurtling around inside my head.
What have I done? What I have done to my wife?
My wife.
Grace.
“I can explain,” I say dumbly, because I don�
��t need to. She knows.
“Who. Is.—”
I reach my hand out. “Give me my phone.”
She shakes her head. “Nope. I’ve already sent myself everything, anyway.”
There isn’t much there. I’m diligent about deleting the content regularly. But I still… My brain screams at me to get this under control.
“What’s her name?”
“It doesn’t matter.” My skin crawls at the thought of Grace knowing anything about…
I can’t even think her name again.
That woman.
My mistake.
“Are you for real?” Grace chucks my phone at me and I barely catch it. “Are you for fucking real? Trying to protect this woman? I will find her, you pig. I have her phone number.”
She hops off the vanity and spins away, a whirlwind of righteous anger.
And I’m standing there, holding my phone, naked. Still dripping wet from the shower.
I chase her anyway. “Wait.”
She laughs and grabs something off her dresser, whipping it in my general direction. “Fuck off.”
“I’m not trying to protect her. She’s meaningless. A mistake.”
“Those texts don’t look like mistakes. They look deliberate. They look like a choice you made.”
“I…” I wipe my hand over my face. “I need to get dressed.”
She gestures at my dresser. “Help yourself. Empty all the drawers while you’re at it, because I want you out of here tonight.”
“We need to talk.”
“Who is she?”
My heart is pounding in my chest as I pull on a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.
She snorts. “Fine. I’ll call her Spitfire, then. Dear Spitfire, my husband won’t be making drinks with you tonight. Or ever again.”
I groan as she types out a text message.
There’s no way Cait will reply.
She knows better.
I hope so, anyway.
God. Fucking. Damn. “You don’t need to do that. I’m happy to stay home tonight.”
She laughs again. “Home?” She waves around. “This place where we have occasional, simple sex? Where you mostly dodge me and wait until I’m asleep before you crawl into bed?”
My gut turns over and my skin goes cold at the accurate barb. “Yes, home.”
“Who. Is. She?”
I give her a little. “She’s an outside counsel we used once at the firm.”
“Someone you work with.”
“Worked with once.”
“I see.”
“I love you.”
She laughs hysterically. “No, you don’t.”
“I do. Please, let me—”
Holding up her hand, she shakes her head. “Nah. Don’t bother. I’m going to leave.”
“Don’t leave.” Desperate need storms inside me. I’ll say anything to keep her here. “I know this is awful. I know you have questions. I know—”
“How long have you been in a relationship with someone else?”
“It’s not like that.” It’s honest to God not. How can I make her see that? “I swear to you, it’s over. Done. I don’t care about that woman. I never did.”
That’s the truth. At least part of it.
She hesitates. It’s a glimmer of hope, and I latch on to it with every bit of my vicious, Bay Street-honed training. I know when a negotiation turns my way, and this one—as fucked up as that is, and I own that—just broke for the bad guys.
Fucking hell.
I swallow hard. “She’s nothing, Grace. You are everything. Whatever you need. Whatever you want. I love you. Please, give me a chance to fix this.”
3
Grace
I scream at him for hours. Throw things at him. He refuses to leave, and eventually, at dawn, I fall asleep on the couch. I wake up an hour later, jolted awake by dark, gross nightmares.
He’s curled up on the floor beside me, his hand up on the couch right next to my hand. Not touching me, but close enough that I can feel the heat of his skin.
I should recoil. I want to recoil. But I need his warmth more. I nudge the edge of my hand against his, and he lets out a shuddering groan, then wraps his fingers around mine. “I know I’ve fucked up.”
His voice is raw, his eyes red.
I sit up and look at him. He’s rumpled. Ashen-faced and needs a shave. He looks…old. And broken.
Get out, I say in my head. It doesn’t translate to words out loud, though.
“I can’t sleep,” I whisper, and he pulls me into his chest.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I hate you.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
The tears come again, and he holds me tight as I soak the front of his t-shirt. Eventually I fall asleep again, exhausted, and when I wake up for the second time, it’s mid-morning.
Luke is passed out beneath me on the couch.
We’re both damp with sweat and my heart is pounding.
I roll onto my back and press the heel of my hand to my forehead. God. When was the last time Luke slept in this late? He’ll be pissed.
And then right on the heels of that thought is another, more bitter one. Why do I care? His schedule is not my problem. His work is not my problem.
Fuck.
I kick at the blanket he pulled over us.
“What’s wrong?” he mumbles.
I don’t say anything. I just keep wrestling with the throw until I’m free, then I lurch to my feet. I stumble to the kitchen and go through the motions of making coffee.
Luke follows. A big shadow of a man. He doesn’t any anything at first. The silence looms, ugly and familiar. He never says much.
We don’t talk anymore.
And when he does open his mouth, it’s the inevitable retreat. His evergreen excuse to get away from me. “I have to go to work for a few hours.”
Work. I slam the cupboard door shut. “Where you fucked her.”
“I never— Never at the office. It wasn’t like that. It was stupid and private.”
Things like that are never as private as people think. “Who knows about the affair?”
“Nobody.”
“Sam wouldn’t cover it up. He’d have told me. Does your assistant know?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?” There’s an unstable edge to my voice and I hate it. I’m not out of control here, he is. I’m just asking questions I have every right to know the answer to. “Why do you have to go to work, anyway? Are you going to destroy more evidence?”
“I’m going to take some time off. It’ll be easier to explain that in person. I need to pick up a few things. Bring a laptop home.”
I spin around. “You’re the fucking boss, Luke. Have them courier you your shit.” But then another thought forms in my head. If he leaves for a bit, I can search his closet. I sigh and square my shoulders. Easier to be the bigger person when you’re secretly a petty, vindictive bitch. “Okay. No, I get it. Go to work.”
“I won’t be long.”
“I might change the locks while you’re gone.”
His nostrils flare. “Don’t do that. I’m going to get some stuff so I can work from home for a few weeks. We’re going to get through this.”
The only thing I’m going to get through is a divorce, and I’m going to do it like a fucking winner. In the cold light of day, I’ve moved into an icy calm. Yelling at him didn’t work. Now I need to get strategic.
That resolve to be smart and strategic lasts an hour. I don’t find anything in his belongings, no secret love letters or obvious receipts that spell out the extent of his betrayal.
The silence of the apartment is suffocating, and the size of all that I don’t know about my husband’s affair looms large, filling the space.
Pressing against my skin.
You’re an idiot. A sucker. A fool.
I look at my phone, at the screenshots I texted myself before I confronted Luke.
A terrible need drives
me to keep looking at them. Afraid of what I will find. Desperate to find it all the same.
And then I go to my computer. I put her phone number into the search engine and get nothing, but when I go to Facebook and paste it there, voila.
A profile image.
A name.
Caitlyn Jobst. A junior lawyer. Younger than me by the looks of it, because of course she is.
She’s beautiful. Lush and sexy, pouring out of dresses on the arms of handsome men. Every picture is almost exactly the same, like she knows the right angle to always look at the camera. Pettily I wonder if she hates being photographed from the other side, if she has a wonky smile or a double chin, but that’s not likely.
I can see why he was drawn to her. She looks just like the women in the porn he likes. Big boobs.
Have you ever thought about getting implants? I think of all the times his hands have covered my breasts and squeezed. Barely a handful, one bigger than the other. I’d always brush off the question, because no, seriously, never, but was that his way of saying he wanted me bigger?
Did he want me to look like her? Dark hair, flashing eyes, perfect makeup? Plumped up and pushed up in every way possible? Soft skin, no dry elbows, no scattering of prickle rash down the back of her arms?
No doughy middle, no pear-shaped hips with too much thigh and not enough length through the calves.
Of course he fucked her.
Of course he wanted that.
I went from being strategic and looking for information to arm myself to just hurting myself for no good fucking reason.
Shame (Secrets and Lies Book 2) Page 1
