Chapter 1

After 15 years of chasing love with Jonathan Reed, we finally made it official, and everyone was happy for me.

When the pregnancy test came back positive, the first thing out of his mouth was a name. "Clover."

I laughed and asked him why. His eyes softened and said, "Clover means luck, and lots of it. I want to have a whole bunch of kids with you."

On our wedding day, Jonathan, who knew nothing about cosmetics, offered to rub body lotion on me himself.

I thought back to last month at the beach, when he couldn't even peel the foil seal off a bottle of sunscreen, and I climbed onto the bed grinning.

But this time he squeezed out the lotion like a pro, warmed it between his palms first, then spread it across my back with an even, practiced pressure.

"Babe, go light under the arms, or it traps the sweat. Behind the ears, put a little extra so the scent lingers." He breathed in, satisfied. "Mm. Just like that."

His hot palms sent a shiver through me.

It wasn't until the ceremony, when a woman carrying that same scent pointed at my belly and laughed through her tears, that the truth finally clicked.

"How could he name it Clover? He doesn't even want Clover anymore..." she stammered.

I looked at the name tag on her chest.

Chloe Vaughn. The name hit me like a slap.

I stared at Jonathan's nimble, practiced fingers. My throat tightened. "Jonathan, since when do you know how to put on body lotion?"

The smell of roses, sweet to the point of sickening. It almost turned my stomach.

Jonathan's fingertips snapped back as if he'd been burned.

After a moment, guilt crossed his face. "Last time I did the sunscreen, you got sunburned till you peeled. Of course, I had to make up for it and learn."

"Oh," I said flatly, then asked out of nowhere, "Which influencer did you learn from? It works so well."

Jonathan blinked, then let out a helpless laugh. "Babe, you know me. I can't tell any of those influencers apart."

Fair enough. Jonathan had been face-blind to women his whole life.

Back in school, he'd handed me every love letter he got, and he never even noticed the girls who brushed past him to confess.

Just as I let myself relax, his custom ringtone cut through the room.

He startled, fumbling to silence it. The instant he caught me watching, he answered like it was nothing, though his frown drew deeper and deeper.

"Claire, the makeup artist, got in a car accident. She can't make it," Jonathan said.

My best friend, Joey Bennett, was furious. "What? A wedding is a once-in-a-lifetime thing for Claire. How could she be so irresponsible? No, I'm filing a complaint."

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. "It's Claire's big day, and you want to file a complaint?"

He turned to me and said, "Claire, no matter what the makeup looks like, you're the most beautiful one here. Don't worry."

I forced down the panic and let Joey take over.

But Jonathan, who until today knew nothing about any of this, coached her with total seriousness. "Toner and moisturizer first. Claire didn't sleep well, so hydrate her, or the foundation cakes."

Joey clicked her tongue and shook her head, watching him with a teasing grin. "He learned bridal makeup for you? Certified wife-obsessed, no denying it now."

I managed a small tug at the corner of my mouth, but unease had my heart in a fist.

For 15 years, Jonathan had grabbed the wrong lipstick shade more times than I could count, and no amount of teaching ever fixed it. So how did he suddenly know exactly when to reach for concealer?

When it was my turn to do his makeup, his unusual behavior became even more obvious.

"You can pull the inner eyeliner a little longer," he said. "Don't draw the brows drooping. They should angle up. Too much shadow here. Wipe it off and start over."

My hand jerked, and the brow pencil nearly stabbed off course.

Jonathan never spoke to me that seriously. I used to paint silly gag looks on him, and he'd just laugh and let me do whatever I wanted. Now there was something almost fussy in his expression.

Seeing me freeze mid-motion, he snapped back to himself and caught my hand. "I'm sorry, baby. I just want to be the most handsome groom for you. I'm scared of embarrassing you. Forget it. Do it however you want, okay?"

I forced a smile. "Since you learned from a professional, we'll do it your way."

His voice was gentle as he soothed me, but I'd gone cold all over. The question kept circling: who taught him all this? And he'd had the patience to learn it this well.

It wasn't until the ceremony, when my usually calm, controlled husband choked up more than once during his vows, that my eyes went red too, and I slowly let out a breath.

I was probably overthinking it.

But during the toasts, no matter how I tugged at his sleeve, he kept throwing back drink after drink. Before long, he was sick and had to be helped out.

It felt like a boulder pressing down on my chest.

Just last night, Jonathan had said his family had so many relatives that he worried I'd be embarrassed mixing them up. And yet here he'd left me to face them alone.

"This is your great-grand-aunt, not your grand-aunt," someone said.

"Young people these days," someone muttered. "No respect for their elders."

The voices weren't loud, but every word stung.

I finished apologizing and lowered my head to leave, only to walk straight into a tipsy lady. Her makeup was streaked from crying, yet she smiled as she asked me, "Claire, I hear you're pregnant. Have you named the baby yet?"

My hand went to my stomach on instinct. "Clover."

She laughed until the tears came. "How could you name it Clover? He doesn't even want Clover anymore..."

As she brushed past, that familiar rose scent set off every alarm bell in me.