I wondered what life would be like with Christabelle instead.
CHAPTER 5
Frankie
“Ineed to talk to you,” Christabelle whispered furtively as I collected our drinks at the bar of Tuppy’s Pub. “Come play a game of darts with me.”
“All right,” I said, my mouth making some excuse to Jillian, some lies that I couldn’t even remember.
For one moment, I almost didn’t go with the way she looked up at me, a little frown line on her brows, her gray eyes troubled.
“I’ll be back in a second,” I reassured her.
There were other people around. It wasn’t like I was abandoning her. Our friend Cash was always ready to play Connect 4 or shuffleboard, and Mari and Dale were there, too.
“Boy, Jillian is really glaring at me,” Christabelle giggled when I walked up to her.
“She’s not glaring at you. She doesn’t even know you,” I said, struggling to keep my heart from pounding. “Once she knows you—Jillian is really sweet—she’ll see?—"
“If she doesn’t hate me, it’s because she doesn’t know the truth.”
“What do you mean?”
“If she knew the truth, she would hate me.”
Despite myself, I felt a prickly heat break out across my chest, blood pumping down to my dick.
The truth
“I love my wife,” I reminded her, my voice sounded raw and jagged to my ears.
My eyes flicked across the pub to where Jillian was talking to Bonnie and Ronnie as Cash set up shuffleboard.
Her sweet face was so gentle as she listened to Bonnie and Ronnie (probably the same complaint as usual, that Tuppy did not serve enough organic food). She was so patient, so longsuffering. Never had any woman been kinder or more generous with her forgiveness, her soft voice always brushing off any mistake or misunderstanding. She was a saint.
I didn’t deserve her.
I should put the darts down, leave the bar, and go back and sit next to my wife.
“I’m sure Jillian is verynice,” Christabelle said, brushing past me to pick up her glass.
“But you aren’t.”
“Fucking hell,” I hissed through gritted teeth. “Iamnice. I’m a good man.”
“Liar,” she said, her lips curved around the rim.
Then she walked past me again, every inch of my flesh where she touched me burning with desire.
“She only knows the nice you. The politician you.Iknow the real you, better than anyone else. You are a dirty dog, Frankie.And you want me.”
“No.”
Was it a statement or a plea. . .
“Admit it. It doesn’t matter how much time we’ve been apart. It doesn’t matter how much we fight.”
She threw the dart, sharp-edged, a flash of metal.
