My Boss, Her Lover

I bought myself a tube of superglue and went about sealing every last window in the bedroom. Not a crack was left open to the outside world.

When I finished sealing the final window, I pulled out my phone and dialed my wife's number.

"Rach," I said, calm and steady, "I've got a business trip today. Might be out of town for a couple of days."

My wife, Rachel Fraser, gave me a quick reply—so quick she could hardly wait to hang up. Before I knew it, the call was done.

I glanced at my phone again, this time at the message from my new employer about my new job. With barely a thought, I sent back a simple reply: [I accept.]

A look at the clock told me it was just about time for her to be heading home from work.

I packed a few changes of clothes, stuffed them into a suitcase, and wheeled it upstairs into the storage room. That room had one particular advantage: from there, I could see everything happening downstairs, clear as day.

I waited. About half an hour later, the sound of the front door opening reached me.

The first person to step inside was Rachel.

She called out as she walked in, craning her neck, putting on a little show. "Honey? Honey?"

Then, satisfied with the silence, she turned her head toward the door and said with a smirk, "See? He's gone. Come on in."

And in stepped a man.

He shut the door behind him, smooth as you please, and with his free hand, he pulled Rachel into his arms like she belonged there.

"So," he said, his voice carrying that sly kind of mischief, "does this mean I've got you all to myself tonight?"

Rachel let out a playful little laugh, squirming half-heartedly in his embrace before melting into it. "Oh, stop it—you're terrible," she said in that mock-scolding way that always means the opposite.

This wasn't the first time I'd seen such a thing.

Last month, I'd forgotten some documents at home and had come back unexpectedly. That's when I'd found the sofa in disarray, clothes scattered all over it.

Some were hers.

Some were a man's.