Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
“More vinaigrette for your salad, hon?” I cut in, saving him from himself and more profanity at the table.
He has the decency to look chagrined but shakes his head no. “Sorry. He just pisses me off.”
Lottie looks at me, eyes round like she caught her father in another oops because we don’t say “piss off” either. At least my eleven-year-old doesn’t yet. I wish I could hold on to every scrap of her innocence, but I know how fleeting this phase is and how fast it goes. I complain sometimes about all the practices, the carpool, the laundry, the meals—all the work and chaos that come with raising three active girls—but Lord help me when it’s over. A quiet house feels like a blessing now, but I know one day, when they’re gone, it might feel like a curse.
“Why’s Judah Cross such a jerk?” Inez, the classic daddy’s girl, asks with a scowl.
“He’s not,” I say before I can catch myself.
In the absolute silence that follows my ill-advised comment, I take in my family’s reaction, ranging from confusion to doubt to—and this one’s Edward—rage.
“I mean…” I clear my throat. “I know at work the two of you bump heads, honey, but at the Christmas party he—”
“You meet this guy for ten minutes at my Christmas party,” Edward snaps, shoving his plate away. “You feel flattered because he watches your ass all night, then take his side even though he makes my life at work a fucking nightmare? That’s just great, Sol. Thanks a lot.”
Waves of shock reverberate over the table, all three girls watching us with wide, worried eyes.
“He was not—” I break off, refusing to air this in front of our children. “Let’s just drop it.”
“Yeah.” He pushes away from the table and to his feet. “Consider it dropped.”
“You didn’t finish your dinner,” I protest feebly, clenching my fists in my lap.
He stops beside my chair, looking down at me with a sneer. “I lost my appetite.” He makes quick strides to exit the dining room. “I’m going out back for a while.”
“Out back” is his man cave. When we bought this house, there was a small storage shed in the backyard. Edward said he’d make it his retreat for when the estrogen of four women in the house got to be too much. He found the furniture, chose the paint and carpet, the gargantuan plasma TV. And, of course, installed his “priceless” collection of Boston Celtics paraphernalia.
I stand and follow him, telling the girls, “I’ll be right back.”
I catch him in the foyer and take his arm.
“What the hell was that?” I demand with low-voiced outrage. “How dare you speak to me that way in front of our children? How dare you speak to me that way at all? Are you really so angry with Judah that you lose control like that?”
“Did I lie? You think I didn’t see the way he watched you? He wanted you.”
“Is that why you deigned to fuck me that night when we got home? Because the villain of the story in your head wanted me? Is that the only way you can get it up these days? The villain Viagra must have worn off because you haven’t been back since.”
He reaches out and grabs me by the arms, gripping so tightly I wince.
“Don’t push me, Sol,” he growls. “You have no idea what I’m dealing with. You wouldn’t take his side if you knew.”
“Let go,” I grit out. “You’re hurting me.”
His hands fall away immediately, and he runs his fingers through his hair, disheveling the neat blond cap.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately,” I say, rubbing my arms, “but you need to—”
The chime of the doorbell cuts into the tirade I had all queued up for him.
“Literally saved by the bell,” he says. “The last thing I want to hear is you lecturing me on…”
He opens the door and trails off. We both take in the small group of people gathered on our porch. Their jackets read FBI. A knot forms in my stomach, and even though I don’t know what they’re doing here, it can’t be good.
“Edward Barnes,” says the man standing in the front, flashing his badge. “You’re under arrest.”
CHAPTER THREE
SOLEDAD
There’s a hurricane tearing through my house.
“You’re making a mistake!” Edward shouts, straining against the cuffs around his wrists, his face mottled with rage.
“What’s going on?” I ask, splitting my question between Edward and the stranger who barged in with an army of ants crawling all over my house.
“It’s that motherfucker Cross,” Edward says, panic taking his voice higher. “I told you he was after me. I’d bet my life he’s behind this. It’s all a misunderstanding.”
“Officer,” I say, turning on the man who first presented himself at the door and seems to be in charge. “You can’t just come in here and tear our house apart and arrest my husband. Do you have a warrant?”