Chapter Seven
Anger took a chokehold on his throat, thrummed through his veins. She didn’t believe he loved her, and she’d set him a fuckin’ test. But it was her lack of trust—like a knife to his heart—that slashed his outrage most.
“What would have happened if I’d agreed to a threesome?” he snarled. “How far would you have let it go?”
The guilt in her face said it all. “I wouldn’t—”
“Ah, just enough rope to hang myself.” Nolan saw his boxer-briefs and pulled them on. His jeans were in a crumpled pile by the bed, and he grabbed those too. He jerked the denim up his legs and snatched his shirt off the floor. The entire time he was dressing Yvonne didn’t say a word. “I couldn’t win, no matter what I did.”
When she still remained silent, he let himself out of her room and left. He stomped to his vehicle and peeled out of the driveway, his foot pressed on the accelerator.
Damn the woman.
Nolan found himself heading toward town and ten minutes later, he screeched into the pub car park. One drink. He’d have one drink. He strode into the pub and stalked up to the bar.
An hour later, the barman cried, “Last orders.”
Nolan looked at his glass and realized he hadn’t drunk more than two mouthfuls of his beer. The amber liquid had lost its white head and appeared flat and unappetizing. He pushed it away and headed for his vehicle.
In his truck, he pressed his forehead against the steering wheel for an instant and squeezed his eyes shut.
Damn the woman.
Why couldn’t she have trusted him?
Yvonne stared at her bedroom door and winced. She’d handled that badly, known she was making a mistake, but like a train wreck, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from asking the question about threesomes, from pushing until she received the necessary reassurance to obliterate every one of her doubt demons.
God, she could still recall the humiliation when she’d climbed out of her marriage bed and her husband and best friend hadn’t even noticed her departure. In the kitchen, back then, she’d poured herself a glass of wine and sat down trying to work out where her marriage had gone so wrong.
It was obvious her husband had felt nothing for her any longer, and she’d wondered if he’d ever loved her. In hindsight, she realized her husband’s mother had seemed more excited about the marriage than her son.
Sighing, Yvonne pulled on her robe and padded out to the kitchen. Wine had done the trick last time. Maybe it would help this time too.
“Mummy. Mum!”
Mother’s instinct had Yvonne jerking awake with a start. The abrupt movement sent jagged shards of pain on a frantic journey through her head. She moaned as other parts of her body transmitted pain—her neck, her shoulders. Her stomach.Eek!A blast of bright light seared her eyeballs when she forced her lids to open.
“Are you sick, Mummy?” Michael pushed his face close to hers and backed away just as abruptly. “You don’t smell good.”
David hovered behind his brother, his expression bearing concern. Yvonne forced a smile even as she attempted to tamp down the nausea doing an energetic dance in the pit of her stomach. “What’s the time?”
Michael squinted at the clock on the far kitchen wall and chewed his bottom lip. “The big hand is pointing up.” His brow furrowed. “Ten o’clock,” he said triumphantly.
Yvonne’s head snapped around to check for herself. Ten to eight. Her shoulders slumped with relief. Late but doable. “Let’s get you ready for school and kindergarten.”
“We dressed ourselves,” David said.
“And you did a great job. We’ll comb our hair after breakfast.” After downing two glasses of cold water, Yvonne organized breakfast cereal for the boys and quickly assembled their packed lunches.
She grabbed a quick shower and then she and the boys were out the door, only a little behind schedule.
Half an hour later Yvonne entered the café.
Gina was seated at the counter, a cup of coffee at her elbow while she read the paper. She took one look at Yvonne and grunted. “Rough night?”
“You could say that.”
Gina stood and walked around the counter to pour another cup of coffee. She added milk before handing it over to Yvonne. “Are you sick or have you had a fight with Nolan?”
