Chapter One

Jules

Present Day

"Wes, Greer, I'm home!" I call out through the house, placing the bags of groceries on the counter. Usually, Greer greets me at the door. Today she didn't, which can mean one of two things. There are boy problems brewing or my girl is napping. Wes is hit or miss. Depending on his mood, he's either gaming or watching a movie, headphones on, and completely zoned in. Seeing as how the kids are in their bedrooms for the time being, I go about putting the groceries away. I swear the amount of food we go through in one week is insane. Wes is practically a grown man, eating more than three meals a day, more like five or six, especially after a day of sports or hanging with friends.

The only good thing about our food bill being sky high is that our house is the neighborhood hangout. Chase will grill whatever the kids agree on, I'll prep the sides, and then we'll rinse and repeat for the following weekend. Since today is Friday, I stopped on my way home to get everything we'd need for burgers, wings, and steak. I go about putting all the food in the refrigerator. There's no use freezing in when it'll be totally demolished by the end of the weekend. Meanwhile, I'm procrastinating at having a conversation with my husband, a really important one at that. Teresa would throttle me if it weren't for the fact she was on a vacation and then returned home to a pile of work, hence our lack of weekly talk sessions. I'm burnt out. There. I'm admitting it. A part of me feels like I'm a wife and a mom. Not a woman. I miss the heated glances and stolen touches. I miss feeling sexy and confident when Chase and I have nights alone, a rarity these days. And while I know our years with the kids are fleeting, a weekend away from it all wouldn't hurt any of us.

Except that would require me to do the majority of the planning. Which has me circling back to the burnt-out stage. So, here I sit and stew like the idiot I am. Chase is a fixer. He'd make things right, not that he did anything wrong. Still, he'd do whatever he could for me and our marriage. The same could be said for me. Except he can't fix what he doesn't know is broken. I take a deep breath. Tonight will be the night. I'll break down and tell him. When the house is quiet and the kids are fast asleep. "Yeah, I'll do it then," I mutter under my breath while closing the fridge door.

There're still no signs of the kids by the time everything is done, and the house is abnormally quiet. Usually, I'd hear a comment from Wesley by now about someone raiding his camp or someone hiding in the dirt but in much worse words. We fight our battles, and the occasional slip-up with a cuss word is what it is. Plus, Chase isn't a saint in the mouth department, and I've got one that could make a sailor blush.

"Hey, anyone want a snack?" There's still no response as I make my way through the kitchen into the living room, and just as I'm ready to put one foot on the stairs to head up to their rooms, I notice something out of the corner of my eye. Our master suite is situated downstairs. Part of the reason we bought this house even though it's so big, almost too big, is that the set-up is perfect. Three bedrooms along with a space for television/theatre room are upstairs, and ours is off the living room. It's nice. There are times when we have family movie night. One of the kids will choose the movie, usually Wes. Greer is too antsy and gets up and down, whether it's for a bathroom or snack break. She's a lot like me in that aspect. We always need to move our bodies.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a piece of fabric, a stark comparison against the beige bedding in our bedroom. For the most part, the main living areas have a neutral coffee with cream color on the walls. Not in our bedroom. I wanted it dark and moody. A wild hair up my sleeve one weekend had Chase shaking his head. Though, he was right there next to me every step of the way, painting, replacing the flooring, and furniture shopping. The now dark green almost black walls with box trim molding really tie it together. And when it was all said and done, Chase had no problem tying me to the massive wrought-iron bedframe. He chose the bed at an antique market. At first, I didn't understand why he'd want a bed that could potentially make a whole lot of noise. Until he tied me to the frame, spread-eagled, and did every imaginable thing possible to me.

"Chase," I say his name even though I'm fully aware he nor the kids are in the house with me. I'm in complete and utter shock as I slowly walk toward the bed. There's a letter on top of a dress. My eyes move every which way, wondering if Chase will make a sudden appearance. He doesn't, and how could he when his truck is nowhere near? The tips of my fingers drag along the black velvet lace material until I'm met with a crisp sheet of paper in my husband's signature handwriting. Hurried, spiky, and in a style uniquely of his own. One which half the time is hard to decipher, especially when he's on the phone with a contractor while taking notes. Tonight is a different story.

Jules,

Wear the dress and shoes, nothing else. A car will be waiting for you at seven o'clock.

Yours,

Chase

I press the note to my chest, taking a moment to gather my thoughts. They're currently in a whirlwind of happiness, excitement, and then there's the throbbing between my thighs. The dress he laid out for me, sans panties or bra. It's a sleeveless sweetheart neckline with a deep V, thankfully wired to hold the girls up a little bit.

Sultry and sexy wrapped in one delicious package.

Bodycon in style, with velvet appliques in the right areas that would otherwise be sheer, and it's short, really fucking short. There will be no bending or moving quickly in this dress, or something will definitely pop out.

"Dear god." I look at the time. It's already close to six. I'm going to be cutting it close between a quick shower, styling my hair, and makeup. The last conundrum that's rolling through my mind is the fact Chase didn't leave so much as a jacket of some kind for me to wear over my dress to leave the house in, let alone arrive at my destination. I quickly shake my head. My husband knows what he's doing. He'd never put me in a predicament where I'd feel vulnerable.

I hold the dress in the air, spinning it around and realizing a much bigger task is in my future. "How the hell am I going to manage to zip this dress up?" The zipper ends at the base of my spine, which means I'll be performing some strategic moves to pull it up. It's time to quit dilly-dallying. I've got a dress, shoes, a note from my husband, and some kind of date he's pulled off at exactly the right time. I'm a lucky, luck girl.