The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

My husband pulled up short in front of the imposing wrought-iron gates that guarded our cliffside home, briefly exchanging a knowing glance with me before activating the electronic keypad that would grant us entry.

He could sense my palpable excitement to be back, but despite his genuine desire to match my enthusiasm, the lingering effects of his previous night's revelry were causing him significant distress. He was still wrestling with the consequences of a monstrous hangover.

Daniel maintained his customary attire of a two-piece suit for the journey back to our coastal haven. He chose oversized sunglasses to shield his eyes from the rarity of the sunlight, which appeared to have minimal impact, given the pounding headache he constantly complained about as he dragged himself around the house.

I was caught off guard when he suggested a leisurely walk to the village to meet Mr and Mrs Ross.

His unanticipated vim and verve was a departure from his usual reticence. I had expected that a period of several days would transpire before he broached the subject of meeting Mr and Mrs Ross.

He needed to sleep off his hangover, at the very least. But his impatience prompted me to infer that his primary motivation was to ascertain the absence of other men before he drove back to the city for work on Monday morning.

Yes, I was a bit trepiduous about the sudden trip to the village, especially with Daniel on my arm. I have not conversed with Jack since I departed The Mystic Willow. He might not be agreeable with us simply arriving unannounced; however, if I wanted to retain that position—volunteer role—I had to adhere to the rules, which entailed staying in my husband's good graces—for the time being—whilst I wrapped my head around our failing marriage.

Daniel was not in the mood to walk from the cliff house to the strip of lights, too hungover to consider it. So, he drove us into the village, once we sorted through our luggage, and parked the car near the beachfront, where tourists mostly used to park their vehicles impermanently.

He might have been dying inside, but he did look handsome when rising from the car, like a movie star, with his designer two-piece suit, black-framed shades and hair gently blowing in the wind.

He was a catch, on the face of it. I noticed, whilst strolling hand in hand down the cobbled back streets of pleasantly old-fashioned stores, small restaurants and coffee houses, many females appreciated the view.

Women openly gazed at him. But, weirdly, no one, not a man or a woman, gave either of us a dirty look or a snide remark—just admiration.

It is rather ironic since I only received death stares when perambulating through the historical village by myself. I heard whispered insults coming from every nook and cranny.

He can walk around with his head held high, with not a care in the world for others, whereas I am always on edge, expecting someone to make a rude comment, stare at me disapprovingly or hurl a rotten tomato at my head.

Turning the corner onto the picturesque backstreet, a haven of charming hidden boutiques, an unexpected spectacle met my eyes. The antiquated yet inviting metaphysical store, an awe-inspiring landmark in the village's serene ambience, had metamorphosed into a dynamic construction site.

A flurry of contractors, attired in their protective gear and bearing a multitude of tools, bustled about the building, their movements a harmonious blend of purpose and efficiency.

The air vibrated with the rhythmic clang of hammers against planks while the ground reverberated with the steady hum of power tools, and the roof now served as a bustling site for activity.

A skeletal trellis of scaffolding encircled the structure, providing a precarious yet essential platform for the workers as their silhouettes, etched against the cerulean sky, moved around with practised agility.