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“No. That’s okay. I just realized I need to head out.”
“Right. Just a second.” I jog to the hall closet and pull my wallet out of my purse to grab the cash I owe him. Dash doesn’t look me in the eye as I offer him the bills. “Thank you. For today. I swear we’ll practice.”
He nods, giving me another one of his not-smiles, before heading for the front door.
As he leaves, I relive the happy moments I had out in the backyard with Dash and Pumpkin just a few minutes ago. The warm bubbles that filled my chest at each accomplishment.
Because I’m excited to be a good dog owner.
Not because I want to impress the cute rescue worker.
Chapter Eight
PAIGE
“You are a strong independent woman, and he’s an idiot for losing you. He fucked up. Not you.” I glare into my own eyes in the rearview mirror.
I’ve parallel parked a short way from the restaurant. This place has valet parking, but dark thoughts in the back of my mind urged me to maintain my ability to make a quick getaway.
In case things go like the last time I saw my fiancé.
Ex-fiancé.I remind myself.
Haven’t gotten used to that yet. But, I will.
My sigh is so deep and drawn out, I imagine the air from my lungs filling the car. If only there was enough hot air in here for me to float away.
Different scenarios for how this meeting will go play through my mind.
Will I curl up in the fetal position at his feet as I sob out my heartache? Will I run into his open arms shouting that I forgive him for all the world to hear? Will I punch him in the testicles?
Only one way to find out.
Finally, I climb out of my car, making sure my long skirt has cleared the door before shutting it. With the warmth of the day I’ve decided to go sleeveless, but I still make sure to cover my legs like always.
Angelo’s is in a gorgeous old building in the French Quarter. Ferns hang in baskets from the second-floor balconies, swaying in the gentle breeze of the day. Tourists pause outside, posing for selfies with the classic New Orleans architecture acting the perfect backdrop.
After stepping inside and passing the hostess stand, I reluctantly scan the restaurant, almost wishing that Martin decided to be as unfaithful to our lunch date as he was to me so I can turn right around and leave.
No such luck.
At a table by the windows, Martin stands from his chair and raises a hand to catch my eye. My hesitant step turns into a stumbling stop when I realize that he isn’t the only one seated at the table.
Obviously picking up on my disbelief, Martin whispers a word to his companion, then leaves her to weave his way over to me.
“Paige. You’re here. I—I”—his words trip together as he grins down at me—“I’m so glad to see you.” When Martin clasps my upper arms, I go stiff at the touch. Either not noticing my discomfort, or disregarding it, he leans forward to press a kiss to my forehead.
I wish it was a slimy kiss or overly dry with chapped lips. I want to breathe in a heavy odor of cooked broccoli or wet garbage. Instead, his familiar caress is warm and soft, and I pick up a subtle hint of his favorite cologne. The same one I bought him a bottle of with my Christmas bonus.
Damn Martin for not being an accurate embodiment of my betrayal.
“What isshedoing here?”
My ex doesn’t even have the grace to grimace or apologize.
“She wanted to see you.” He strokes down my arm, running his fingers over my slack palm. I realize his intent in time to pull away and cross my arms over my chest, balling my fingers into fists.
No way am I holding hands with the man who obliterated my trust.
