Me: Better, thank you
AA: What’re you doing now?
I peer at the question for a minute.Why are you asking? I type and erase.
Me: Bray’s going out
AA: I know
So…he’s texting me knowing Brayden won’t be home. I won’t think anything of that, even as my cheeks go slightly warm. I look up—Lexi is still gathering her things…slowly.
I need to answer Brayden, so I do.
Me: I’m not dressed to go out
Brayden: You look fine
But of course, he’d left the house before I got ready for the game, and I haven’t sent him any pictures other than asking if he had a preference in the kind of pasta sauce I got at the grocery store. He didn’t.
Me: You don’t know what I’m wearing.
Brayden: You look fine.
Was he being insistent or flirting or both? I can’t tell.Do you even like me?That was a question for someone you have a crush on, not someone you’re married to. Ishouldgo out with him. I tell myself it’s that—and not the low tug of curiosity in my belly—that makes me text Asher.
Me: Going out tonight
AA: Sure. Have a good night, Mrs. Forsyth.
Me: It’s not like that.
AA: Then what is it like?
Complicated.I don’t respond. I just touch up my lipstick and tell Brayden I’ll be there in a few minutes and walk toward the clubhouse like a dutifulwifeywould. If I try hard enough, I can almost pretend this is real.
Chapter Twenty
Savannah
A signoutside the club announces the dress code—no athletic wear, bold and underlined. “I’m really not dressed for this place,” I say.
“You look fine.” Brayden marches us up to the bouncer, eyebrow raised like he’s spoiling for a fight.
The bouncer looks from him to me and back again. “Dress code says?—”
Brayden cuts him off. “I hope you’re not telling me thatmy wifecan’t come to this club.”
The bouncer looks at Brayden again. He’s a big guy with slightly weary eyes as if he’s seen everything and most of it’s hair-pulling fights. “Not a problem.” And unclips the rope to let us in.
Inside the club, people are dancing under the low illuminated ceiling or splitting time between the bar and booths circling the room. Brayden leads me over to a booth: large, leather, half in shadow.
I sit, scooting myself around; Brayden slides in after me. He showered after the game, and he smells like fresh air andexpensive cologne.Ballparkscents. He drapes an arm around the back of the booth. His fingertips brush the nape of my neck right above my shirt collar, playing with the chain of my pendant.
A cocktail waitress comes over. She’s dressed better than I am—a cute top that shows off her toned arms, a cute skirt that reveals the petite lines of her legs. A wide Southern grin that she aims right at Brayden. “What can I get for you?” she asks him.
Brayden nods to me. I haven’t even glanced at the menu. “She’ll have theNever Say No,” he says, “and water.”
I give him the eye.I can order for myself.What I can’t say with the waitress here watching us, clearly aware of who Brayden is. Even if the drink—a Scotch cocktail—sounds like a migraine trigger in a glass.
