Page 12 of The Hand Surgeon's Housewife

Hugo

I hurry after Pamela, my footsteps echoing through the hallway as I reach her bedroom door. Leaning against it, I pause to catch my breath, my heart sinking with disappointment and frustration. What happened earlier replayed in my mind like a relentless loop, each moment intensifying the ache of rejection.

"I'm sorry," I murmur through the closed door. "Can I come in?"

"No," sounds Pamela's soft reply from the other side and she sounds embarrassed.

I close my eyes briefly, trying to steady myself. "Will you have dinner ready for later tonight?" I ask, hoping to coax her out of her room.

"Is it okay if you just make something yourself?" Her voice is barely audible, and I feel a surge of frustration. I don't want her hiding away like this. I want her to feel at home, to feel safe and loved.

"Sure," I manage to reply through clenched teeth, keeping my voice as even and open as possible.

I stand there for a moment longer, willing her to change her mind, but she remains silent. With a heavy sigh, I push away from the door and head back down the hallway. The weight of her reluctance sits heavy on my shoulders, and I can't shake the feeling that I've let her down somehow.

But tomorrow’s the weekend and I won’t be working. I’ll be able to give her my full attention and hopefully warm her up to me. At least enough, that she won’t flinch every time I touch her and bile rises in my throat. Fuck, I wish I had just killed Raymond with my bare hands. Dropping him from the roof was far too kind.

6.

Pamela

The next day it’s as if we’re magnets forced to bump into each other. It’s as if the universe is conspiring against us. Every step I take around the house is met with him, and it’s awkward and uncomfortable and makes me feel…hot.

When I walk into the living room to straighten the cushions on the couch, I almost bump into Hugo as he's coming out of the hallway. We both stop short, eyes meeting briefly before I mumble an apology and sidestep him. He nods, but there's a tightness around his mouth, a hint of frustration or maybe disappointment.

Later, when I'm in the library trying to figure out how to organize the bookshelves, Hugo appears in the doorway. I feel his gaze on me, assessing, but when I look up, he quickly looks away, pretending to be interested in the titles on the shelf.

"Need any help?" His voice is carefully neutral, but I sense an underlying tension, as if he's struggling with his own thoughts and emotions.

"I think I've got it," I reply softly, not meeting his eyes. The space between us feels charged with tension and I figure I better get some air, or I won’t last much longer.

Besides, I should give the garden some attention anyway. The flowers look thirsty, so I grab the watering can and carefully water each plant, enjoying the cool splash of water on my hands. I pluck off the dead leaves, trying to revive the garden as best as I can.

Next, I move on to yanking up the weeds. The abrasive feeling against my skin makes me wince, and I let out a cry of frustration.

"You should've used gloves," I hear Hugo's voice behind me.

I turn around to find him standing there, his gaze focused on my palm. His presence sends a jolt through me, and I feel a flutter in my chest as he takes my hand in his. His touch is gentle yet firm, and I can't help but feel a rush of warmth spread through me.

"Go inside and apply some baking soda," he says softly, his eyes meeting mine. "I'll finish this up."

I nod, grateful for his concern. I’m about to head back inside, when I catch him rolling his t-shirt over his back in one fluid, masculine motion. The sight leaves me flustered, my cheeks heating up uncontrollably. I hurry back into the kitchen, struggling to calm down.

Standing by the sink in the warm kitchen, I spy on him through the window even though I’m married to him and could basically have him right now on the floor if I wanted to! The midday sun beams down on him, highlighting the lines of his back and arms, each muscle defined and glistening with sweat. Him being shirtless, does something to me, stirs something deep within me.

I grip the edge of the sink, feeling a flush spread across my cheeks. Is it normal to feel this way about your own husband? My heart races as I continue to watch him, mesmerized by the way he moves, so strong and capable. Each motion is calculated as he tackles the weeds, his brow furrowed in concentration.

When he effortlessly tosses aside a large, cumbersome wheelbarrow that was destined for the garbage, I gasp audibly. My knees go weak, and I clutch the edge of the sink tighter for support. He’s powerful, rugged, and this is getting all to intensity for me. I’m lusting after my own husband. If only my stupid body wouldn’t react with giving me flashbacks of Raymond each time I’m about to be touched.

The kitchen suddenly feels stifling, the air thick with both the heat of the day and the heat rising within me. I need to cool down. I need to regain my composure. A shower. That’ll help. Hopefully.

***

I dry myself off quickly, the towel rough against my skin as I step out of the shower. It did help. A little bit at least. I wrap the towel around me and glance out the window towards the garden, half-expecting to still see Hugo there, but he's gone.

Curiosity tugs at me, and without overthinking it, I decide to look for him. I pull on a loose blouse and skirt, my mind still lingering on the images from moments ago—the way Hugo's muscles moved under the blazing sun, his determination etched on his face.

I move down the hallway, my steps hesitant as I approach his bedroom door but to my surprise, it's locked. A knot forms in my stomach. Why would Hugo lock the bedroom door in the middle of the day?