Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
I force myself to eye him without a blink or a facial twitch while I slide my dress back down my legs. When I removed my panties, I had no illusion that he wouldn’t want firsthand proof. However, no amount of mental cheerleading prepared me for this feeling. He is an awful man who married a horrible woman. And God should have robbed them of their right to reproduce. But He didn’t. And now I’m stuck grappling with the question of God’s existence. Perhaps, for now, it’s best if He doesn’t exist. I have a feeling I’m not earning any points toward salvation.
“You were vague at lunch when I asked you to tell me about yourself. A dental assistant, originally from the West Coast, didn’t give me much to go on.”
“Wait. You were going to tell me about your family. I think I earned it.”
“Tit for tat?” He lifts his eyebrows. “I can go all night if that’s the case. What do you want to know first?”
“Do you have kids?”
“A daughter.”
The waiter returns with cups of soup. When he leaves, I continue my line of questioning. “How many times have you been married?”
“Just once. First and last marriage.”
He’s committed. Not faithful but committed.
“How old is your daughter?”
He grins before sipping his soup. “You earned two questions. And I answered two questions.”
“Does your wife know about your indiscretions? And do you know about hers?”
He grins. I take that as a yes.
“You said you were only in town for a few weeks, but you never said why you’re here,” he says.
“Mmm … I suppose I didn’t. I’m visiting family.”
He nods, readily accepting my explanation. And why wouldn’t he? There’s no reason to be in Boone or Rhodale unless you live here or have someone to visit.
After the soup, the waiter delivers our salads.
“If the only way we talk is through an agreed-upon physical exchange, then I’m not sure why we’re here and not at a hotel,” I say while stabbing lettuce with my fork.
He pauses his motions. “Would you go to a hotel with me? It’s only our second date.”
“We’re not dating.” I shake my head.
“No?”
“I don’t date married men.”
Archer chuckles, blotting his mouth while leaning back in his chair. “Then why are we sharing a meal twice in less than a week?”
I shrug. “I like free food. And I find it psychologically fascinating why people cheat. Maybe I should have been a psychologist instead of a dental assistant.”
I’m not sure why Archer is into banking other than the apparent reason—money. Because I did a little research, and he has a master’s degree in psychology.
A victorious grin slides up his face; he knows I’ve Googled him. “There is not one single answer. Happy people cheat. So do people who love their spouse. One can be perfectly satisfied with their marriage, even sexually satisfied, but they still cheat. So the typical troubled marriage or damaged person with a history of emotional baggage doesn’t always define the reason for cheating.”
“You’ve thought about this a lot.”
He shrugs. “Perhaps.”
“So why do you do it?”
“Because I can.”
I laugh. “That implies there are married people who can’t cheat.”
“There are plenty of people who are incapable of cheating.”
“The righteous ones?” I slant my head to the side.
“The miserable ones.”
“So everyone in a faithful marriage is miserable?”
Archer’s head bobs a few times. “Maybe half. Maybe more.”
The waiter arrives with the main course—the catch of the day with eyes. I’m not eating it.
“You’d be miserable in a marriage, Iris.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you wouldn’t allow yourself this luxury.”
Is cheating a luxury? I ponder that idea.
“How do you know?”
“Because you said you’ve never been married.”
I roll my lips together for a beat and nod once before eating the red potatoes not near the fish’s head. “So I’m afraid to get married because I don’t trust myself to be in a monogamous relationship, or I know I wouldn’t cheat and therefore feel trapped?”
“Your words, not mine.” Archer smirks before taking a bite of his fish.
“Maybe I’ve just been career-oriented.”
“Then you’d be the dentist, not the assistant.”
I take personal offense on behalf of all dental assistants—even if I’m not one.
I have over a decade of college on my resumé. Would that impress him? I don’t know. He seems to be more of a tits and pussy guy.
By the time dessert is served, Archer has his tie loosened and the top two buttons of his shirt undone. Also, he’s had most of the bottle of champagne.
He drums his fingers on the table while I eye my chocolate tart. It’s hard to eat with him staring at me.
“Do you not like dessert?” I ask.
“I like you.”
“I’m not on the menu.”
“You should be.”
My laugh is a little nervous, a little forced.
“Dinner was lovely, and the conversation has been most interesting.” I set my napkin on the table and slide my dessert plate away.