Page 83 of The Bad Husband

“It’s a warm night, isn’t it?” I murmur, opening the door and fishing out a bottle of water.

I twist the cap and take a sip before turning to them.

She checks something on her phone, ignoring me.

He looks straight at me.

There’s no way I can move closer to him and secretly give him the note.

He needs to know about this. And I need to witness his reaction.

“Where were you?” he asks in a voice filled with icicles.

I flash a counterfeit smile.

“Keira and I went to a bar downtown. Had a lot of fun,” I say. “We met some friends.”

He purses his lips as if he’s genuinely still mad at me for going out and talking to Frankie.

He surely fools me, so I go on, trying to get a reaction from him, and her, perhaps.

“I met this new guy,” I say, and the woman flicks her eyes away from her phone and studies me.

Standing in front of them, I take another sip of water.

“What guy?” she asks.

“A friend of Keira’s,” I say, purposefully leaving Frankie’s name out.

I may be new to this, but I’m not a fool.

I remember her questions about him the last time I dropped Frankie’s name. ‘Which Frankie? Blah, blah, blah…’ She seemed so curious about something that was not her business.

How many Frankies are in this town that have Frankie’s reputation?

Damon was there too, and she didn’t bat an eyelash when she asked me about him, as if she had no idea who he was.

She knew of him, his relationship with Damon, and her husband’s dislike for him.

I don’t want to clue her in on what happened tonight.

“He’s really nice,” I say, genuinely excited, earning a stern look from Damon.

He lifts an eyebrow at me and rests his elbows on the kitchen island. He sits in his favorite chair with a drink in front of him.

He’s probably not going out again. Although it’s hard to tell with them. They’re always dressed up as if they’re going out.

“I’ll be seeing more of him,” I announce, eager to gauge her reaction.

Wouldn’t that put a pang of doubt into her mind about leaving me a note?

“In fact, we’ll meet again tonight. At his place,” I say.

Henrietta tosses a blank stare at me as if she doesn’t care or doesn’t believe me, so there’s not much opportunity for me to clarify things for her.

“All right. I’m going upstairs,” she says to her husband before picking up her bag and sashaying away. “Don’t be late,” she tosses at him over her shoulder.

She sounds like any other loving wife who plans to spend the night with her husband.