seemed, that sebaceous hick Miliewski had sent her six e-mails in one day. It was rather sad that he'd been flirting with her for years now. Sadder still was the fact that he clearly thought buying her one glass of cheap Zinfandel made her the future Mrs. Video Poker.
"Sorry, big guy." With a few clicks, Christy deleted Brandon's request that she join him and his colleagues at St. Elmo that night for dinner, and an additional five e-mails, which she didn't bother to read. What had she been thinking the day at the Chatterbox Tavern? Miliewski wasn't assertive or attractive—he was a fat ferret. Getting the scoop on Jack's latest bimbo must have left her light-headed.
Christy clicked off her computer and slipped on a pair of flats for the walk out to the parking lot, thinking to herself that the teacher convention thing was soon to become a mere hors d'oeuvre on her buffet table of revenge.
She got into her little yellow Nissan 350Z and shook her head in regret. She'd never been able to wear that gorgeous pink dress again—it held too many bad memories.
"Her name was Tina. And things were already coming to an end before you and I signed our agreement."
"Do you miss her?" Sam was immediately embarrassed by the intimate nature of her question. She had no right to be talking to Jack Tolliver like this—and that's exactly what made this arrangement so strange. He was her date but not really; she was starting to like him, but she didn't know why; she thought he was funny and sweet and a prick at the same time; her panties got damp whenever he glanced her way, which was just plain disconcerting.
"Truthfully, I do miss aspects of that relationship," Jack answered. As he sipped his wine, the sparkle in his eyes indicated he amused himself.
"I imagine she had aspects out the wazoo." Sam turned to look out the window onto Meridian Street. They'd gotten the best table at St. Elmo, which shouldn't have surprised her, but it was a little thrill nonetheless. She'd only been in this venerable old downtown steak house once in her life—when Mitchell took her here for their tenth anniversary. It had been such an unexpected splurge at the time, and she remembered how she'd struggled to enjoy herself while wondering how the hell they could afford thirty-dollar steaks and a forty-dollar bottle of wine, even on their anniversary.
Mitch had reassured her. Told her to relax. Then their waiter had delivered a dozen long-stemmed red roses to their table and Mitch took her hands in his and said, "Happy anniversary." He leaned across the table to kiss her hand and they talked about how big Greg and Lily were getting. Mitch told her about his latest glass projects, and for the first time in a long time she'd felt a sweet excitement being in his company. She allowed herself to believe things might be getting better between them, that Mitch might be turning some kind of corner as a husband and an artist.
Sam sighed softly, blinking at the city lights outside the window, remembering how her husband had taken her home that night and made love to her.
Within three weeks she found herself spending the first waking hour of every day on her knees, suffering from morning sickness the likes of which she'd never experienced with Greg or Lily. One Tuesday morning, Mitch appeared behind her in the bathroom door. She could have sworn he was saying something about their marriage being a sham and that he'd discovered he was gay, but it was hard to hear when her ears were ringing from the retching. Mitch moved out the next week, the same day the mailman delivered the Visa bill for their anniversary meal. It became one of many shared debts her husband never got around to helping her pay.
"You OK over there?"
Jack's question startled Sam, and she realized she'd been impossibly rude in her silence. "I'm sorry. Guess I'm not great company tonight."
Jack gave her an understanding nod. The poor guy was probably bored to tears. He might even dock her
"Sorry, big guy." With a few clicks, Christy deleted Brandon's request that she join him and his colleagues at St. Elmo that night for dinner, and an additional five e-mails, which she didn't bother to read. What had she been thinking the day at the Chatterbox Tavern? Miliewski wasn't assertive or attractive—he was a fat ferret. Getting the scoop on Jack's latest bimbo must have left her light-headed.
Christy clicked off her computer and slipped on a pair of flats for the walk out to the parking lot, thinking to herself that the teacher convention thing was soon to become a mere hors d'oeuvre on her buffet table of revenge.
She got into her little yellow Nissan 350Z and shook her head in regret. She'd never been able to wear that gorgeous pink dress again—it held too many bad memories.
"Her name was Tina. And things were already coming to an end before you and I signed our agreement."
"Do you miss her?" Sam was immediately embarrassed by the intimate nature of her question. She had no right to be talking to Jack Tolliver like this—and that's exactly what made this arrangement so strange. He was her date but not really; she was starting to like him, but she didn't know why; she thought he was funny and sweet and a prick at the same time; her panties got damp whenever he glanced her way, which was just plain disconcerting.
"Truthfully, I do miss aspects of that relationship," Jack answered. As he sipped his wine, the sparkle in his eyes indicated he amused himself.
"I imagine she had aspects out the wazoo." Sam turned to look out the window onto Meridian Street. They'd gotten the best table at St. Elmo, which shouldn't have surprised her, but it was a little thrill nonetheless. She'd only been in this venerable old downtown steak house once in her life—when Mitchell took her here for their tenth anniversary. It had been such an unexpected splurge at the time, and she remembered how she'd struggled to enjoy herself while wondering how the hell they could afford thirty-dollar steaks and a forty-dollar bottle of wine, even on their anniversary.
Mitch had reassured her. Told her to relax. Then their waiter had delivered a dozen long-stemmed red roses to their table and Mitch took her hands in his and said, "Happy anniversary." He leaned across the table to kiss her hand and they talked about how big Greg and Lily were getting. Mitch told her about his latest glass projects, and for the first time in a long time she'd felt a sweet excitement being in his company. She allowed herself to believe things might be getting better between them, that Mitch might be turning some kind of corner as a husband and an artist.
Sam sighed softly, blinking at the city lights outside the window, remembering how her husband had taken her home that night and made love to her.
Within three weeks she found herself spending the first waking hour of every day on her knees, suffering from morning sickness the likes of which she'd never experienced with Greg or Lily. One Tuesday morning, Mitch appeared behind her in the bathroom door. She could have sworn he was saying something about their marriage being a sham and that he'd discovered he was gay, but it was hard to hear when her ears were ringing from the retching. Mitch moved out the next week, the same day the mailman delivered the Visa bill for their anniversary meal. It became one of many shared debts her husband never got around to helping her pay.
"You OK over there?"
Jack's question startled Sam, and she realized she'd been impossibly rude in her silence. "I'm sorry. Guess I'm not great company tonight."
Jack gave her an understanding nod. The poor guy was probably bored to tears. He might even dock her
Similar Books
