My Germaphobe Husband Wasn't Disgusted By Her, Only By Me

Synopsis

After three years of marriage, my husband, Lucas Grant, was still the absolute definition of an ice-cold professor. He couldn't stand any emotional drama or physical touch. If I tried to hold his hand, he'd grab a disinfectant wipe and scrub his fingers for five whole minutes. On our anniversary, when I went in for a hug, Lucas gave me that chilly stare and pushed me away, insisting I keep at least three feet between us. Half a year ago, I was on the scene as a frontline reporter, covering a sudden fire at his lab at Westbridge University. Trapped in the thick smoke, I completely broke down, sobbing uncontrollably as I wrapped my arms around his waist, begging him to take me out of there. But Lucas pried my fingers off one by one. He said, "Julia, could you not scream like a maniac?" He left me behind in the middle of the fire, turning his back on me to help evacuate the others. I spent nine days and nights in a coma in the ICU before I finally pulled through. After that, I learned to keep all my passion bottled up. I stopped speaking loudly and made sure not to get within two feet of him to match his so-called refined, abstinent demeanor. But every time Lucas saw me, his eyes were still cold and emotionless. I thought this was his inherent, untouchable nature. Until one day, I went to his office again, and through the half-open door, I saw something that completely flipped my world upside down. The guy who always acted allergic to touch was softly wiping tears from the corner of his twenty-year-old student, Nina Lane's, eyes with his fingers. He even took a sip from her coffee, right after she did. Turned out, he wasn't naturally cold or some obsessive germ freak. He was just disgusted by me. Lucas had no clue that in three days, I'd be signing up for a war zone assignment. So, after ten years of trying to make it work, it was time to let go for good.