I go through every single moment of my marriage to Ashleigh. All of it—from the wedding day to Conner’s birth, to the day she told me she needed space. How much of that was this other guy involved in? How many of those memories were tainted and I didn’t even know it? If Conner didn’t look exactly like me, I would ask for a DNA test. I contemplated doing it anyway just to hurt her.
She looked hurt last night. She looked devastated and that made me angry. I hadn’t done a fucking thing to hurt her. I had done everything I could to keep her from getting hurt. She had cheated and she then had the nerve to look destroyed about it? I wonder when she became that kind of woman. Was she always like that and I was just too stupid to see it?
And when I can pry my mind off of Ashleigh for a millisecond, all I can think about is my family. I have to tell them about this now because I am not going to be trying to make things work. I am not going to stay married to this woman. I also feel sick at the idea that my parents will be disappointed and that I will look like I fucked up. My ego isn’t willing to tell everyone the whole truth—that my wife decided I wasn’t enough and fucked someone else. I am just not ready for the world and my family to know that. So eventually, I will muster up enough strength to tell them we are separated, but not the reason why. Not anytime soon, anyway.
And then my thoughts turn to that sexy, loudmouthed brunette who betrayed my trust in less than twenty-four hours. I know Callie meant well. I know she wanted to help me, but telling them—having Luc and Rose look at me with those sad, sympathetic stares—made me furious. That “Poor Devin, he isn’t perfect after all” face they both gave me was worse than keeping any of the secrets I’d been keeping.
Half of me wanted to let Callie get the hell out of my house this morning. Half of me didn’t care if I ever saw her again, but then I looked in Conner’s room. She’d taken the time and the care to make it into something special. That’s when I begrudgingly realized she needed to be here. In my current state, I am in no shape to take care of my child on my own. Having Callie around—with her loudness and happy-go-lucky attitude—will, hopefully, keep Conner from noticing his father is a fucking mess on the inside, my emotions surging back and forth between complete rage and utter relief. The relief comes from knowing that because Ashleigh did something completely unforgivable, I can stop the exhausting mental exercise of trying to find ways to redeem her and our unhappy life together. And then there is the added bonus that having Callie around means she can save me from having to face my poor excuse for a wife. I had no plan of ever seeing Ashleigh again.
I call our home phone number and when Ashleigh answers, sounding strained, I blurt out that Callie will be picking up Conner for me that afternoon and abruptly hang up. Then I turn my cell off. Luckily, I don’t have a landline here so she can’t get a hold of me that way.
If I could get away with it, I would never have an actual conversation with her ever again. I have nothing to say. And there is nothing she could say to make this better. By noon, when it is clear that my mind won’t shut off on its own, I go downstairs in search of something to make it shut off. I find a bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the bar cart in the dining room, open it and start to drink.
Chapter 8
Callie
After work I pick up Conner at Ashleigh’s. She looks distraught and tries to talk to me about it, but I simply ignore her and walk away with Conner. When I get to Devin’s, he’s nowhere to be found. I take Conner upstairs and show him his newly decked-out room, figuring Devin might be there, but he’s not. As Conner squeals with delight and starts exploring his new toys and admiring his posters and decorations, I dart down the hall to Devin’s room. The door is cracked open, but it’s dark inside.
I peek my head inside, and when my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can make out his form in the bed. I sneak in, intending to wake him up, and as I get closer I realize he’s naked. He’s facedown, his dirty-blond hair completely askew. The sheets on his California king bed are covering one leg and half an ass cheek but nothing else.
I don’t even pretend not to admire his well-muscled back or his perfectly round, tight ass or the hard, thick muscles in his exposed thigh. I realize that even though we sort of had sex, I’ve never seen Devin naked. It’s impressive. I lean in to wake him and am completely assaulted by the stench of liquor.
I sniff. Whiskey, if I’m not mistaken. Barf. I touch his bare shoulder and give it a shake. His skin is warm and sweaty. “Devin! Wake the hell up! Conner is here.”
He grumbles into his pillow. I shake him harder.
“Get! Up!” I bark.
He moans and rolls over. The covers do not cover anything now. The girly girl in me—the one I like to keep locked up in a dark corner of my mind—wants my hand to fly up and cover my eyes. But luckily, too much of me is an anti–girly girl, badass horndog and I resist the urge. So I stand there and stare down at him as his eyes flutter open.
“Conner’s here,” I repeat in a low but firm voice. “And you smell like a distillery.”
“Sorry…” His voice is thick and gravelly. He puts his hands to his eyes and rubs them.
“And you’re totally naked right now.”
His hands fly from his eyes and he looks down his body and grabs at the sheet, pulling it up over his legs to his waist as quickly as humanly possible. His eyes find mine again and he looks embarrassed.
“Well, don’t just stand there staring!” he demands as his face goes red.
“I didn’t. I took pictures with my cell phone,” I quip, and turn and head back to Conner’s room.
We’re on the floor in Conner’s room playing Legos when, half an hour later, Devin wanders in. He’s showered, his hair still damp, and he’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and a pair of Brooklyn Barons sweats with bare feet.
Conner’s whole face lights up when he sees him, and Devin kneels and captures his son in a big hug. His caramel-colored eyes land on me and they’re even more bloodshot than this morning. The liquor is to blame this time.
“Daddy, my room is special!” the little blond bundle of adorableness says to Devin.
“It is!” Devin agrees enthusiastically and he glances around it again. He sees it—above the bed—and he gives me an amused look with an eyebrow cocked.
“Really, Callie?” he questions. “Inmyhouse?”
I look up at the poster of Avery Westwood, captain of the Seattle Winterhawks and one of my conquests, and smile. “He loves Avery and besides, he can stare at you and his uncles anytime he wants.”
Devin almost laughs at that. Almost, but it’s still a victory.
Later that night I’m in the kitchen cleaning up the remnants of the spaghetti dinner I had whipped up, as Devin comes into the room after tucking Conner into bed.
