Page 26 of Guilty as Sin

My wife keeps her face turned away from me. She gazes out her window as if to shun me as the city lumbers by. The column of her neck stretches gracefully, a smooth glide of skin down to her cleavage. That red dress is even better than I’d thought. It’s got a deep V for her neckline, and a high slash up her thigh. It’s eye-catching, which is the point, but I despise the thought of other men enjoying what’s mine.

As I grind my teeth, my phone dings. It’s the maître d’, confirming the table by the window. I send him a hundred dollars.

Outside my restaurant, I help my wife out of the car, then step back to admire her.

“You look amazing.”

She ignores me. The bright red dress adds a fieriness to her attitude.

I take a few more steps back, as if to get the full-length view of her. A second later I’m angled by the front window. It’s insanely cheesy, but I pretend to take a photo of Cora. I keep my elbows wide to draw attention.

He’s sitting at the window table, and he glances at me.

I have him.

Noah.

The man who texted my wife this morning, looking forward to their date tonight. I feel the rush of heat to my face.

Pure fury.

I stride over to my wife and take her in my arms. I kiss her hard. Fast. The right amount to leave her breathless.

“Samantha?” he calls.

He’s rushed out of the restaurant. Shock on his face. All according to plan.

My wife stiffens in my grasp. She turns away from me. I let her, but I keep one arm firmly around her waist. Her jaw falls open.

“Noah! Shit. Fuck. I completely forgot about—” She turns to me, all the color drained from her cheeks.

“Something I should know about?” I ask calmly.

“No, I—” She shakes her head as if to clear it. “Noah, this is Brady. My husband.”

“Brady O’Sullivan,” I tell the man, pulling my wife closer to my side.

He jolts at my name, his sudden fear palpable, a weakness I could squeeze in my fist. The puny shit’s wearing a polo shirt and khakis. He looks ready for his eighth-grade school photo.

This is the guy my wife was interested in? He’s so small and pathetic that I curl my lip in disgust. He puts his hands in his khaki pockets.

“I didn’t realize you were married,” he says to my wife.

“I wasn’t,” she says. “I mean, it was yesterday. The wedding. I wasn’t married when you and I went out. Fuck, I’m so sorry, Noah. I should’ve thought to call you. I meant to, I just⁠—”

I hate the sound of her groveling to another man. But I let her go on, savoring his hurt expression.

“Everything happened so fast, and then I completely forgot about tonight. And I’m sorry, I really am.”

Noah the Worthless Shit furrows his eyebrows in confusion.

“But you texted me about tonight,” he says.

“What?”

“This morning, when you said you made a reservation here.” He gestures toward my restaurant.

My wife’s tactical brain takes less than one second.