You Don't Know Me by Susan May Warren Read Free Book Online

He’d see all of her and . . . and . . .
    Then what? Nathan hated betrayal. His father had betrayed his mother, and it destroyed all of them. He’d never forgive her. Worse, he’d despise her.
    She couldn’t bear to see the reflection of Deidre in his eyes. The Deidre who had once bartered herself for drugs. Who’d awoken in an alley with no recollection of who she was, where she’d been. Who’d gotten her roommate and best friend murdered.
    Even Annalise despised that Deidre.
    And her children, what of them?
    She couldn’t lose them.
    “Nothing’s funny,” she said finally. “I’ll be to bed in a moment.”
    He flicked off the television as she closed herself in the bathroom, reaching for her nightclothes hanging on the hook. Long flannel pajamas, wool socks, an extra sweatshirt. Sometimes she even slept with gloves.
    Sexy.
    She considered the layers. No, she couldn’t tell him the truth—not yet—but perhaps she could put a little spice back into their marriage. Help them find that spark, that intimacy she’d always longed for. Maybe then he’d understand.
    She stripped off her clothes, examined for a moment the scar on her knee, then grabbed a towel and wrapped it around herself. She sprayed on some of the perfume he’d given her last Christmas, pinched her nose to keep from sneezing, brushed her teeth, and finally exited the bathroom, her pulse pounding in her throat.
    The light on her side of the bed bathed Nathan’s face, his eyes softly closed, eyelashes curled against his cheeks. His computer lay on the floor next to the bed, in sleep mode.
    She padded across the room. He didn’t move.
    Sitting on her side of the bed, she laid her hand on his chest. “Nathan?”
    Nothing.
    She leaned close, smelling his neck. She loved his aftershave, the way it sank into his skin, turning his smell masculine and strong. Despite the lack of spark, their romance had healed her, their love life always making her feel safe and cocooned.
    He emitted a snore.
    She ran her hand along his chin, feeling the whiskers there. Then pressed her palm again to his chest, gauging his breath as it rose and fell.
    Yes, this was enough. To share this life, these children. To know they had a future. She didn’t need spark.
    She returned to the bathroom to don her layers before slipping into bed.

    Once upon a time, Tucker Newman had a family waiting for him when he came home. A mother who set a tuna casserole in the middle of their scratched pine table at six o’clock. A father who sat in the frayed green recliner, channel surfing. A brother who might drag him into their room to check out the newest boards in Snowboarder magazine.
    Once upon a time, Tuck didn’t open the front door to a cold, dark house, with creepy shadows that lurked in the corners and the smell of old milk in the air, evidence that someone—aka him—had forgotten to take out the trash. When he flicked on the light, it spilled into the kitchen, over the pile of mail strewn in the center of the table, across sticky, egg-encrusted dishes in the sink.
    “Mom!” he called but didn’t really expect a reply. His mother had pulled a couple double shifts down at the Deep Haven Tavern—working as a waitress, then her regular position as bartender. She’d probably be out past two again tonight. But they needed the money.
    Maybe this year they wouldn’t be eligible for the community church’s Thanksgiving basket. He hated answering the door, accepting the basket from Pastor Dan and his wife. Like they were poor or something.
    They weren’t poor. Just . . . just . . .
    Hungry. Tuck found a box of generic macaroni and cheese in the cupboard. He pulled out a pan, filled it with water, and set it on the stove to boil.
    Then he toed off his shoes and lifted Rusty off the table, setting the old tabby on his lap, running his hand over the cat’s back as he sifted through the mail. The folks at Midwest Ski Supply still hadn’tfigured out that his brother died