I narrow my gaze on her, suspicious at her eagerness. She has no idea the torture she’s signing up for. “Will you behave yourself?”
She leans in, running a fingertip along the edge of my collar. “Define ‘behave’,” she requests with a nibble to my earlobe.
The bite of her teeth sends fire shooting to all my favorite spots.
“Oh, I’ll define it for you,” I mutter, launching off the couch, scooping her into my arms, and running up the stairs, two at a time.
She buries her face against my chest, giggling in my arms all the way to my bedroom.
God, I missed her when I was gone.
37
JULES
This restaurant smells like old money, anxiety, and seafood.The room is stiflingly quiet, except for the clink of utensils and the booming voices of the business men Lincoln hopes to close this deal with.
The men—all fifty shades of creepy, by the way—remind me of my father and his side of the family.Bleh.
I don’t even bother to learn their names. I am itching to speak my mind. To tell the lot of them exactly what I think of them.
But today’s business lunch is important to Lincoln, and as much as these men represent everything I despise, I want this to go right for my husband.
My husband.
So when Lincoln subtly places his hand on my knee, I remember to paste on my politest smile. And when he slides his hand a little higher, giving a light squeeze, I clench my thighs together, remembering the things he promised to do to me tonight if I behave like a good girl at lunch.
Usually, I’m nobody’s good girl. But in exchange for the magic Lincoln does with his tongue, I’ll pretend to be one for the next hour, give or take.
So far, I’d say I’m making good on my promise to be on my best behavior. I had honestly expected to despise the wives of these business sharks. But these women are actually sweet, and way too good for their douche-toid husbands. I feel so bad for the ladies.
The old demons have been demeaning and disrespecting their spineless spouses throughout this entire meal.The snide comments and so-called ‘jokes’ I’ve had to witness while I’ve been seated at this table have been atrocious.
I keep trying to make conversation with the women. I want to help bring them out of their shells so I can at least get to know them a little bit. I mean, if the men are busy talking business, why can’t us ladies shoot the shit?
But I keep hitting a brick wall.
“Carol, what do you do now that your kids are grown?” I ask when I see the woman just sadly pushing her fork around her plain salad.
She startles, jabbing a thumb into her chest. “Me? Oh, I—”
“My wife is a domestic goddess,” her husband interrupts her. “Keeps the house immaculate. You won’t find a spec of dust on our baseboards. Just the way I like it.” He chuckles, wiping a smudge off his wine glass with a cloth napkin.
“Yes, that’s right.” Carol avoids my eyes and suddenly becomes interested in folding her own napkin into a tiny triangle.
Yikes.
Another one of the associates butts in. “My Belinda here, she thought about working once, saying something aboutfulfillment. I told her I’d fulfill the checking account, and shecould fulfill the pantry.” He slaps the table, laughing with the rest of his buddies.
Belinda’s lips turn up in a tight, practiced smile as she nods dutifully. I cringe, absolutely appalled.
What the…?Lincoln wouldnever.
This lunch is starting to feel like being stuck in a 1950s horror show.
These men won’t stop putting their wives down, blabbing on and on about how their womenwantedto do nothing. Making it sound like they begged to just stay home.Judging by the silence coming from the women, it’s painfully obvious that their husbands are convincing no one but themselves. And whenever the womendoattempt to speak, they’re all quickly dismissed.
Lincoln throws me a pleading look, silently begging me not to set fire to this restaurant. I have so much I want to say, but I force it down. Today isn’t about me. It’s not about me.
