The Imposter Marin Montgomery (rom com books to read TXT) 📖

out my strawberry-blonde locks and use my hands and some dry shampoo to add body, my day-old blowout still holding its end of the bargain.

At least something is. I smirk, thinking about my marriage.

Holden and I have been together since our early twenties, and a decade later, we’ve hit a rough patch.

A few months ago, he got tenure at his university, and I was ecstatic for him. He’d been working toward this for years, and it was the career trajectory he wanted.

Me, not so much, and my stance is admittedly selfish.

I was used to his career taking a back seat to mine. It was the argument I always had in my back pocket. Being the breadwinner, I could toss that in the ring when it came to chores or as justification for how I spent our money, my needs always at the top. And now that the tables have turned, I’ve become the resentful and nagging wife. After his promotion, the little time we have together has been sucked up not only by teaching but by his research and mixers, and our relationship is no longer a priority.

Worse yet, Holden no longer seems to need or want my opinion or validation.

I draw in a depressed breath, staring at the three-foot swordlike plant sitting on the ledge underneath the window. Called a snake plant, it adds coziness to my midcentury office, the furniture and decor reminiscent of an era gone by but not forgotten. I’m not a fan of the scaly reptiles, but the snake plant was a gift from a client.

I gulp, not sure client is the right word.

I touch a finger to my lips.

Friend, maybe.

Ever since that night a couple weeks ago, my husband might beg to differ on this point.

So we skidded from one rough patch into another onerous stretch.

Outside, a shrill blare from city traffic interrupts my thoughts. I’m about to glance out the window when a buzzing in my purse distracts me.

I ransack the contents of my catchall handbag and dig my phone out on the last ring.

“Speak of the devil,” I mutter.

Before I can say hello, my husband says coldly, “We need to talk.” I’m startled at his tone. He adds, “It’s urgent.”

I hastily reach forward for my coffee, instead catching the cup with my elbow. It topples over, the dark liquid pooling over the transparent glass, its movement swift as it spreads over the length of my desk.

“Shit,” I murmur.

“So,” the voice accuses, “you know what it’s about?”

“No,” I sigh. “I just spilled my coffee.”

Frantically, I open the frosted-glass desk drawers in search of a leftover napkin. My hands shake as I fumble with a couple of airplane bottles of vodka, both empty. They roll around in the drawer, loose and free, rattling underneath a pile of papers.

I rummage around for anything I can use to wipe the desk off, then push them aside, unable to find anything useful.

Glancing at my watch, I ask, “When do you want to talk? Tonight work?”

“How about now?”

My eyes home in on a tissue box on the middle table that separates the two chairs across from my desk.

Jackpot.

“Give me a minute,” I offer. “Let me check my calendar.”

I tap the mute button and set the phone down before rushing to clean up the mess I’ve made. The liquid has taken over the desktop, and I catch droplets about to plunge onto the plush navy carpeting in my office.

An aggravated scowl appears on my face, and I’m annoyed I didn’t ask for tile flooring.

After sopping up what’s left of my morning drink, I toss the tissues in my wastebasket and settle back in my chair.

“Sibley?” Annoyance penetrates the silence. “You there?”

Taking the phone off mute, I respond, “Uh-huh. I can spare a few minutes now. My next meeting’s in a half hour.”

“You do that,” he hisses. “I’m glad you can spare some billable hours. If we need more time, should I make an appointment with Leslie?”

“Whoa!” I snap. “What’s wrong?”

“You clearly know.”

“Obviously, I don’t.” I reach for a pen cap to chew on, something to refocus my mind as the usual craving hits. I need to focus on this conversation when what I really want is a drink. I lick my lips, thinking about the bottle stashed in my closet, underneath my change of clothes and a raincoat for the few days a year a monsoon or thunderstorm unleashes a torrent of rain.

I’m better than this, I tell myself, but it doesn’t ease the longing.

Exasperated, he asks, “Do you have something to tell me?”

“You know I don’t like these games.” I chomp down hard on the plastic. “I’m trying to be available, but I don’t have much time, so what gives?”

“Fine, then. I’ll cut to the chase.” Holden lets a pregnant pause linger. His flair for the dramatic is giving me an ulcer. “Why am I looking at a dating profile for you?”

This is not what I expected to hear out of his mouth. I thought he was referencing something else entirely.

The stash of empty bottles I’ve hidden all over the house.

Our joint checking account, which I’ve depleted.

I’m baffled. “A dating profile . . . for me?”

“Repeating what I say only buys you time and further implicates your guilt, Sibley.”

“I’m processing the words you just said,” I say. “You’re staring at a dating profile of me?”

“Yes.”

“Care to share it?”

“You wrote it, so you should know. And I quote, ‘Just looking to see what my options are. To be up front and scare you away, I’m still married, still unclear on what I want from this, but easily available if I think we’ll have some fun. Are you still reading? You are, aren’t you?’”

Speechless, I open my mouth and then close it.

“Oh, and then you added a devil emoji. I must say these pictures are very flattering. Going risqué on a public site is ballsy for you, and with your career, it seems a bit over the top, but lately, you have been reckless.”

Even with the air-conditioning blasting through the vents, a