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However, I didn’t have to be an asshole because Garret had obviously read the displeasure on my face, grabbed his woman up, and took her to the other side of the party.
And with that, everyone else got up and left, too.
Then I felt bad, well that was for all of two point five seconds because the woman at my side threw her head back and laughed.
And let me tell you something, I've never seen a more gorgeous sight than that right there.
Never in all my thirty-five years of life.
After she had her laughing fit, one that I just sat there and took in and marveled at her, she looked at me with that all too familiar twinkle in her eye.
“Your turn,” I told her.
“Why are you still here if your wife isn’t?” Damn.
“Starting with the big guns I see.” I couldn’t remove the smile that formed on my face, even if I wanted to.
And her reaction? Was to just shrug. Fucking shrug.
“Want the answer that’s a lie or do you want the answer that’s the truth but will make me come across as an asshole?”
She quirked an eyebrow at me, “The truth. Always.”
“Because my wife is a bitch, and when she left earlier, it wasn’t because she had a headache, it was so she could go screw someone in her bed in our house. Never had a reason to not go home and sleep in my bedroom alone like I always do. Not until I saw you earlier today.”
She processed that, then she held up her beer bottle to me, and not knowing what to do, I clinked mine to hers as she said, “To all the skanky hoes who need to catch a venereal disease and die.”
“Cheers to that.” I told her, took a pull from my beer with her, then asked, “Why won’t you sleep with a married man, given what you do?”
“Because my mother made it a habit of doing it when I was younger. I was categorized as a homewrecker when I was only five years old. Made a promise I would never be like her.”
What the actual fuck? “How would you even know about that at five years old?”
“Because there are some assholes in this world, about seventy-five percent of the world's population are assholes. I was made aware that my mother was a homewrecker and after seeing wedding rings on the men’s hands that walked through our revolving door and had never bothered to take them off, you learn.”
And that was how I found out her favorite color, her favorite brand of chocolate, and the location on where to buy her favorite fudge.
That was also how she learned my favorite song, my favorite movie, and the fact that I am deathly afraid of needles, but I have tattoos on almost every part of my body. That was also how she just placed herself as my top priority without even realizing it because, after the talk about her mother and her childhood, she initiated those topics.
So, when I got home that night at three in the morning after I walked her to her room in the clubhouse, my wife was still up and sitting on the couch watching Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. She stood up, walked over to me, and sniffed me.
“You don’t smell any different.” The fuck was this woman on?
“Why the fuck would I smell any different?” I hadn’t meant to growl out that question, but it seemed lately I was doing nothing but growling.
She scoffed, fucking scoffed, and said, “Because you were with that slut all night, weren’t you?”
It took everything in me to not say that I wasn’t the cheating whore in this relationship, but I didn’t. Even though I wanted to so badly. And I almost reacted to her, almost, not because she tried to say I cheated on her, but because she called Gabriella a slut.
Instead, I turned from her and headed to my room, and unable to not say it, I stopped and said, “You don’t even know me at all.”
“I know you better than you know yourself. I am your wife, after all.” Wasn’t that a crock of shit?
Wanting to prove my point, I crossed my arms over my chest and asked her, “What is my favorite color?”
She smirked then and said, “Black.”
Shaking my head, I said, “Wrong. It’s gunmetal gray.” I didn’t tell her that the answer to that question had recently changed from that color to indigo blue. The color of a certain someone’s eyes I could get lost in.
