I come to a stop, and my head tilts.
There’s a woman at the table, tits out, with a baby in the crook of her arm.
Okay, so…
Who the hell is she?
I wonder if she’s one of the things Moretti planned to talk to me about today.
Is that his baby?
If so, I’m going to punch him in the throat for her.
Maybe a little bit for me too.
I mean, why else would she be here?
Moretti doesn’t have any brothers or sisters, so that’s out.
“Oh, shit,” she says, popping one breast back into her bra as she moves the baby to latch on to the other. She hits her feet while I’m still stuck blinking like an idiot. “Hey, sorry about that. I’m Angel, and yes, I was hanging out down here, hoping I ran into you. This place is a dickfest.”
Under normal circumstances, I would laugh, but I’m hungry and confused.
Angel is pretty, with long wavy blonde hair, brown eyes, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She’s cute in that girl-next-door way that men go crazy for.
Damn.
Her boobs are the size of the baby’s head. Wow. This is when I realize that I’ve been staring for an uncomfortable amount of time.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Vanessa.” I nod, eyeing the platters of food on the counter. “Is it okay if I dig into that food?”
“It’s your house.” She laughs. “So, yeah, I’d say you can have whatever you want.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, beelining toward the island. “Do you happen to know where the plates are?”
Or Hawk?
Hell, I’d even settle for my husband.
I have so many questions, and a few choice words for that man.
“There should be a stack somewhere over near the sink,” she says, and all I can seem to focus on is how awkward this must be for her.
It’s not my ideal start to a morning, but it’s also not as bad as my life could have been if I was waking up at Grigoryan’s house. So, I’m not going to complain. If I were her, I sure as fuck would have an earful for Moretti.
I find the plates and silverware, then proceed to pile French toast, bacon, and hash browns onto the plate. There are even pitchers of juice and what I assume is coffee.
I’m not a coffee person, at least not in the morning.
I’d much rather have a crisp Dr Pepper, or Coke if that’s not available. “Do you know if there’s soda around here somewhere?”
“Moretti is kind of a health nut. The man doesn’t drink soda.” She laughs, bouncing the baby as it eats. “Check the fridge at the back of the pantry. The guys keep it stocked.”
I give her an appreciative smile. If I have to live with my husband’s girlfriend, I’d like to, at the very least, maintain a civil relationship.
Oh. My. God.
I wonder if I have a sister wife.
