Burning Down the Spouse by Dakota Cassidy

them wet. Her breath shuddered in and out, taking the tissue from probably the most beautiful blonde Amazon on the face of the planet. “Thank you.”
    Her smile, perfect and warm, acknowledged Frankie. “I’m Jasmine Archway.”
    Of the famous Archway Tires?
    Her smile, red and glossed, was knowing, too. “Yep, that’s the one. Performance tires, truck tires, radials. Tires, tires, tires. Isn’t it funny when the last name Archway is mentioned, Archway Tires is the first place people’s minds go? Especially here at Trophy Jobs where everyone’s jacked up. I bet the name wouldn’t raise an eyebrow at the Stop & Shop. Anyway, I’m Ashton Archway’s ex-plaything. Ex and now broke plaything, that is.”
    An ex-plaything named Jasmine . . . poles, showers of dollar bills, and thong-tha-thong-thong-thongs came to mind.
    She chuckled, reading Frankie’s thoughts again . “And no. I wasn’t a stripper. My mother was a botanist. Jasmine was her favorite flower.”
    Frankie dropped her head to her chest, swiping at errant tears while hiding her shame for judging Jasmine.
    She gave Frankie a nudge with her equally perfect round shoulder. “Don’t feel bad. Looking the way I do, the stripper-slash-escort thing comes with the territory. I own it. All the labels a blonde like me conjures up—I own every one of ’em. I know I’m hot. I worked hard to maintain the gifts God gave me. Look where that got me, huh?” She looked down at the front of her tight ruby red sweater, catching Frankie staring with a question in her eyes. “And yes, this is my rack. Not the job of some fancy plastic surgeon. Though,” she said on a wistful sigh, “I wish I’d reconsidered when Ashton said I could have a lift if I wanted it. These days, they’re finding it harder and harder to breathe through all this underwire and steel.”
    Frankie burst out laughing, putting a hand over her mouth. “It’s obvious I don’t have the same problem. But on the upside—no boob sweat.”
    “Ah, but we have many other things in common. You’re Mitch in the Kitchen’s ex-wife, Francis.”
    There was just no hiding—even looking like a mere shadow of her former self didn’t help. Frankie averted her eyes, fighting the rising swell of panic in her chest. She fought an uncomfortable fidget, forcing herself to stay seated instead of running out of the room as though it were on fire.
    Jasmine placed a hand on her arm, her frosted white nails flicking at Frankie’s wrist. “It’s not like everyone doesn’t know, Francis.”
    “Frankie.” She cleared her throat. “It’s Frankie.”
    “Okay, it’s not like everyone doesn’t know, Frankie . You did lose your mind on national TV.”
    There really was something to be said for phrases like “not in polite company” and “if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” Her words were bitter in response. “Yep. That was me.”
    Jasmine shrugged her slender shoulders. “So own it. Your husband’s off screwing a chick named after a deer in a Disney movie. He did something shitty, and you let him have it for most of the world to see. Is there any shame in calling someone on their craptacular behavior?”
    “I think it’s frowned upon in national television settings.”
    She let her blonde head fall back on her shoulders with a chuckle, throaty and rich and so open, Frankie envied her freedom. “Tough shit for Mitch. Maybe he should have been smarter and banged the maid instead. It certainly would’ve been less global and far more discreet.”
    Somehow, Jasmine, with her outspoken acceptance and brash observations, made Frankie feel a little less like a social pariah. “And maybe not quite as painful.”
    “Maybe. But here’s how I look at it. You got out in the nick of time. Mitch isn’t getting any younger. In fact, he’s getting wrinklier by the day. Not that you’re getting any younger either, but you’re still a ways behind old Mitch. On the bright side,