Sloane's POVI heard the car before I heard him. First the tires on the gravel, then the front door, then his footsteps on the stairs, unhurried, as if nothing was amiss. I had learned the difference without intending to learn it during the last week.I said to myself, I am reading. The book had been open for an hour on the same page.The door opened and Lucien walked in, loosening his tie, and I didn't look up quick enough to pretend that I hadn't been waiting.I said, "You're late.""I know." He didn't say sorry for it. He never did anymore, never for the hours, but for the things that mattered, and that made it worse.He began to undress, but he didn't look at me; he put his jacket over the chair and his cufflinks on the dresser. I watched him, and I hated how much I missed watching him. A week ago I would have had a comment on that, something biting enough to make him look at me rather than through me. Tonight I watched and let him not look, and I told myself it didn't matter.It
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