Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
“I know it’s a Tuesday night and all, but maybe we should go out, huh? Get your mind off things for a while.”
“Yes,” I say, without hesitation, standing up on unsteady legs. “That’s a great idea. Let’s go out.”
“Okay!” Tanya claps her hands together. “Let’s go to Whiskey Tavern for happy hour. They have the best wings, I’m not even kidding. I’m going to go change out of these modest work clothes. I want men to know I’m on the market, don’t I?”
Nodding, I watch her leave the room, then crouch down in front of my own suitcase, which is folded up on one side of the couch. When I returned home and packed in a state of grief and hysteria, I didn’t exactly have the wherewithal to pack sensibly, but I did grab a short, tight, flowery skirt and a baby blue, low-cut V-neck. I’m not on the market, like Tanya. Nor will I drink alcohol tonight, since I’m pregnant, but getting out of here will be enough. I can’t sit here and think another second.
And maybe…just maybe…there is a part of me that wants to piss North off.
The way I’m pissed off at him.
Going out to a bar without him is a sure-fire way to accomplish that.
One of us doesn’t go out unless the other is at our side. That rule was never discussed, it’s simply an unspoken tenet of our relationship. We’re jealous over each other, which is funny, because neither one of us would ever touch another person. We’re faithful to the bone. But the mere act of being out in public without his arm around me will drive him insane—and I don’t care right now. I hope he gets mad. I hope he feels a little bit of the helplessness that plagues me from morning to night. It’s only fair, isn’t it?
I change into the skirt, tucking my shirt into the waistband. Freshening up my makeup and twisting my hair into a high knot, letting a few pieces escape around my neck. A borrowed pair of heels from Tanya completes the look—and we grab our purses, heading out. Tanya chats excitedly about everything from the appetizer menu at Whiskey Tavern to school gossip, and I do my best to listen, even as my skin starts to prickle, knowing I’ll see North soon.
When I spot him, he’s leaning against the side of his car across the street from Tanya’s apartment, arms and ankles crossed, his golden stare homed in on the building exit.
On me.
A single eyebrow goes up slowly when he sees me. He pauses in the act of chewing a toothpick, his energy sharpening like the tip of a pencil. He rakes me with a possessive look and a muscle snaps in his cheek.
I avert my gaze quickly, but not fast enough, because my hormones are already throwing an absolute tantrum. Why does my husband have to be so painfully hot? Normally I celebrate his attractiveness, but right now? His big, fighter’s body is tempting me to give in. That possessiveness on display makes me want to revel in it. To forgive the dangerous decision he made and let him take me home, make love to me until we break the bed. Again.
“Oh boy,” Tanya mutters. “I’m going to get caught in a crossfire tonight, aren’t I?”
Guilt prods me in the belly. “I’m sorry, Tanya. You’re being so kind to me and in return, I’m dragging you into this mess—”
“I’ll forgive you, as long as your forgive me for picturing you and North having sex. Like, a lot.” She winces over at me. “It’s my go-to spank bank material.”
“O-oh…oh, well…” I sputter, cheeks heating. “I guess I’m flattered.”
We keep walking and North pushes off the car, throwing his toothpick down into the street and following behind us. The backs of my thighs turn warm under his scrutiny and I know I’m tempting disaster, but I put some extra swivel into my hips, well aware that the hem of my skirt is curved tight to my bottom. When I packed this skirt, it still had the tags on it. North has never seen it on me before, but somehow I already know exactly how he would fist the sides of the material and drag it up past my hips. All while whispering filthy words against my mouth.
I can’t help casting a glance at my husband over my shoulder.
He looks crazed. Eyes on fire. Hair abused and left in disarray by restless fingers.
It hurts me to see him like this, but it’s satisfying my anger at the same time. So even though his obvious pain makes my chest throb, I turn and keep walking. We’re both suffering anyway, right? At least this, getting dressed up and going out, means I’m not sitting in one place and slowly expiring. At least it’s something besides sitting numb and devastated in the pain. The anger is better, more satisfying than sadness right now, and I want to lean into it.