Part 1Shotgun Wedding to the Cop

I married a detective in a whirlwind romance, and now our marriage feels like a long-distance relationship with a stranger I met online.

Our text exchanges are about as personal as a chatbot’s.

[On a stakeout. Won't be home. Lock the door.]

[He got away. Still on it. Not coming home. Lock up.]

[Stakeout. Door.]

[K.]

Finally, unable to bear the crushing loneliness any longer, I decided to go out with my best friend and find a little fun for myself.

I texted him first, just to be safe.

[Still chasing bad guys tonight?]

Apex_Predator: [Yep.]

Perfect, I thought. If he’s busy chasing criminals, he can’t be busy chasing a cheating wife.

The next thing I knew, I was in a private club, happily watching a male model work a dance pole, when the door burst open.

“Vice raid! Everybody down!”

My world went black.

Turns out, the person he was busting tonight… was me.

* * *

Day 32 of my new marriage.

My best friend, Maya, had sent me ten straight thirst-trap videos. I stared at the parade of sculpted abs on my screen, swallowing hard.

“So,” she texted, “how do they stack up against your Detective Cole?”

I stared up at my blank ceiling. “I’ve… never actually seen him with his shirt off.”

Her reply was a string of shocked emojis. “Are you serious? Ginnifer, if you don’t jump his bones soon, his gun is gonna get rusty.”

Believe me, I wanted to. I was practically starving for a taste of him.

I met Nate Cole on a blind date. The moment I saw him, I was a goner.

He was walking testosterone—a police uniform stretched tight over broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and impossibly long legs, topped off with the kind of intense, chiseled face that screamed alpha. He was handsome, but with a wild, dangerous edge.

“You don’t mind that a detective’s work schedule is crazy?” he’d asked.

“Not at all!” I’d shaken my head, probably a little too enthusiastically, trying not to drool. So what if he was busy? I loved an ambitious man.

I didn’t realize “busy” meant he’d be so absent I’d practically turn to stone waiting for him.

On our wedding night, before our lips even had a chance to properly meet, his phone rang. He shot out of bed like he’d been ejected. “Emergency call. Got a lead.”

I spent the night tossing and turning, waiting.

The next morning, my period arrived before he did.

Nate was always either chasing a suspect or on his way to chase one. Usually, I was asleep by the time he got home, and he was gone before I woke up. He knew I was a grump in the morning, so to avoid disturbing me, he’d just sleep in the guest room.

A month into our marriage, and we were like strangers who’d matched on a dating app three states apart.

His response time to texts was glacial, and the content was as robotic as it gets.

(Monday)

Barely_Breathing: [Coming home tonight?]

Apex_Predator: [On a stakeout. Won't be home. Lock the door.]

Barely_Breathing: [Package at the front desk. Pickup code 5210.]

Apex_Predator: [I’ll get it when I’m back.]

(Tuesday)

Barely_Breathing: [Did you get him?]

Apex_Predator: [Ran. Still on it. Not coming home. Lock up.]

Barely_Breathing: [Package pickup: 5456]

Apex_Predator: [K.]

(Wednesday)

Barely_Breathing: [Home?]

Apex_Predator: [Stakeout. Door.]

Barely_Breathing: [Package pickup: 5678]

Apex_Predator: [K.]

Apex_Predator has sent you a transfer of $3000. Memo: Paycheck.

(Thursday)

Barely_Breathing: [?]

Apex_Predator: [K.]

Barely_Breathing: [Package pickup: 6785]

Apex_Predator: [K.]

I swear… I felt like I had married a ghost who moonlighted as an unfeeling delivery bot.