Michael.
“Stop thinking of him,” she murmured. Her obsession with the contractor wasn’t helping things.
Neither was her inner voice. With increasing regularity, her instincts sent her messages, and each one flashed as bright as a Las Vegas casino sign.
Dump Trent’s ass. He makes you unhappy. What more do you need to know?
Determined to drive to Trent’s condo and finally have it out, Emily stood and picked up her purse. Planning what she’d say to him, she took her first steps toward the door. When she glanced out the picture window near the entrance, some movement outside caught her attention.
Trent emerged from the sports bar on the corner, one of the places where the two of them used to grab quick dinners. At first, Emily wasn’t sure it was him, but of course she’d know him anywhere.
He wasn’t alone.
He walked outside, looked around, and a woman followed him out. They were holding hands.
Emily’s gaze traveled slowly from their linked hands to the woman’s face. Veronica. The owner of the bar, the friendly one who always used to chat with them when they visited. The one who always seemed so interested in Trent’s cooking experience.
Trent looked down the road, in both directions, and grinned at Veronica. He led her a few steps away from the bar entrance, leaned her up against the brick wall, and kissed her on the mouth.
Emily couldn’t drag her gaze away, locked on the sight in morbid fascination as all her suppressed fears came to life in vivid Technicolor.
Trent kissed Veronica as if he received his life’s breath from her, and the woman smoothed her hands down his back to his backside. He hadn’t kissed Emily like that since…had he ever kissed her like that? She must have grabbed the nearest chair because the coffee shop waitress hurried over.
“You look light-headed. Do you need some help?”
Emily shook her head, but couldn’t stop looking at her fiancé.
The coffee shop waitress glanced out the window. “Boy, some people, huh? Maybe someone should tell those two to get a room. You sure you’re okay, hun?”
“Yes, thanks.”
Trent and Veronica ended their kiss, but snuck a couple more. He said something to her and backed away. Veronica blew him a kiss, pouted, and opened the bar door. Trent turned, but Veronica let go of the door and hurried back to him, flinging her arms around his neck. He grinned and they began necking as if they couldn’t drag themselves away from each other, like two rebellious teenagers whose parents disapproved of their relationship.
Something about their passionate clutch roused Emily out of her stupor. The desperate nature of their kiss brought her inner hellion to life. All of a sudden, her rage had a soundtrack, and it was written by a young Alanis Morissette. She wanted to stomp and scream and start an uproar.
Two years with this man. She’d shared her time, her finances, her fucking soul. Even though she’d begun to doubt his fidelity, having proof made the contents of her stomach turn over. It gave her as much pleasure as deep-throating a vomit popsicle.
Her feet led her outside the coffee shop, instantly picking up her pace, and it was a good thing, because she didn’t feel in control of her movements right now. If anyone had asked her how to place one foot in front of the other, she would have stammered, unable to come up with instructions. She passed one store front and then another. By the time she’d passed a couple more buildings, she was running.
She needed to tell Trent…tell him what exactly? That she hated him? That she wished he and his redhead arm candy would die painful deaths, preferably in the mouth of a volcano?
All she could see was her fiancé, the man about whom she’d worried so much, embracing another woman. How long had it been going on? It was possible Trent and Veronica had already been lovers when he took Emily to that bar the first time. She supposed anything was possible now. Had they traded looks behind her back, or maybe even snuck a grope or two when she went to the bathroom?
They’d probably laughed at her.
Her eyes stung with unshed tears as she hauled her slipping handbag back over her shoulder. She would not cry over this man.
She. Would. Not.
“Bastard.”
When Trent and Veronica turned toward her, Emily realized she’d said the word aloud.
“Oh, God, Em.” He turned the color of aged concrete.
As Veronica moved away, Emily reared back, funneling all her anger into the swing of her arm. Blind with fury, she punched Trent in the face. Pain shot up her arm and exploded from her in a shout. “You heartless fuck!”
When Trent went down, it was probably more out of shock than pain. A couple of teenage boys across the street hooted with mirth as his ass hit the pavement.
