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“I appreciate this,” he goes on, “I’m not talking about the drink.”
I paid the tab as I often do when we sit side-by-side in this place. I still don’t know how it always turns out that way. Kavan is worth a hell of a lot more than I am.
“I know,” I say quietly. “I know.”
I know that sometimes he needs to sit and talk about nothing with someone who has witnessed everything he’s been through.
He taps the top of the bar with his fist. “I’m going home. Where are you headed?”
On another night, it might be to the club a few blocks over to find a woman willing to take me to her place for a fuck, but not tonight.
“Home too,” I answer before I finish what’s left in my glass. “I have a full day tomorrow.”
That’s a lie, but Kavan won’t know. I’m notorious for going into the office on Sundays. I’ve always spent more time there than anywhere.
Sliding to his feet, he looks me dead in the eye. “There’s no shame in falling in love with your wife, Locke.”
I laugh that off in a low chuckle. “Not going to happen.”
I tell myself that over and over again as he exits the bar and disappears out of view.
I may have felt a connection to my wife tonight that transcended what we agreed to, but love isn’t in the cards for me, especially not with Miss Shaw.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Trina
Sundays are a day of grace.
My mom would tell us that when we were kids, right before she handed us a list of chores that needed to be tended to in our home or at the bakery.
I was always the first to volunteer to wash the floor.
It was a mindless job that never required much effort on my part other than handling a string mop and a large pail of soapy water.
Since I’ve lived away from home, I’ve used Sundays to recharge.
I’m doing that today, but it’s not because I want a reset. It’s because I need an escape.
I couldn’t sleep after coming on my boss’s hand right before he answered his phone.
He took a goddamn call while his fingers were inside of me. It was mere seconds after he honed in on that spot that no man has ever found before.
At least not with me.
It wasn’t even a treasure hunt for Locke. He didn’t need a map. He instinctively knew how to curl one of his fingers in just the right way to send me into an earth-shattering orgasm.
He did that and then seamlessly answered his phone before rushing off to meet someone else.
I didn’t even get a goodbye, or that was fun.
It felt like he penciled in ten minutes to finger fuck me before he continued with his night.
If the dictionary is looking for an image to accompany the definition of humiliation, they could have taken a picture of me last night when I went to bed.
I was defeated.
Embarrassed, and yes, I was mad.
Mad at my husband for answering the phone but also angry with myself for letting my guard down.
I know better than to trust him.
I handle his business affairs. He’s as cutthroat as they come. Less than two weeks ago he axed a long-time employee. When I asked why he said it was because they hadn’t lived up to the Abdons ideal.
He didn’t live up to the Trina Shaw ideal last night, so this fake marriage is officially in separation mode until at least midnight tonight.
I left Mr. Abdon a note on the kitchen counter this morning telling him that I had something to take care of today but would see him tomorrow after work.
I didn’t leave anything for Graham because he deserves nothing from me.
I’m going to spend today back in my simple world with the people who mean the most to me.
Before I do that, I slip the wedding rings from my finger. Instead of shoving them into the pocket of my jeans, I tuck them into a compartment within my purse. I zip it up to secure them in place.
I may not place any emotional value on them, but monetarily they are worth a lot, and once my marriage has come to an end, I’m giving them both back to Mr. Locke.
Maybe one day if he finds a woman willing to marry him for the right reasons, he can give her Mr. Abdon’s late wife’s wedding band.
I doubt a woman exists who would fall in love with him, but miracles happen on a daily basis in New York City, so there’s a slim chance.
As for me, I plan on letting fate lead me to a man I’m meant to marry. By that, I mean a man who won’t take a call when I’m riding his hand to a mind-numbing orgasm.
With a lingering sting still gnawing at me after what transpired last night, I tug open the door to my family’s bakery.
