Page 4 of Dirty Rotten Cheating Husband

What did that expression mean?

She looked like she fucking hated me!

But why should she hate me?

I had known her for as long as Grayson and I had been married and had never spoken a cross word to her in my life.

And there was a lot of venom in her look, way more out of proportion than could be due to any way I might have unwittingly insulted her.

He’s going home with me, I reminded myself, snuggling into the crook of his arm to watch the play.

But, for once, I couldn’t talk myself out of my fears.

Was my husband cheating on me?

CHAPTER 4

Clementine

Grayson and I had been married for two years, and our story was the most romantic whirlwind romance.

When I saw this big man in a suit come into the coffee shop where I worked, my jaw almost dropped to the floor. He was older, but he had this air of sophistication to him. The guys my age were still wearing sloppy sweats or trying to get booty calls.

Not Grayson. He was so tall, his well-made blue suit stretched across huge broad shoulders and chest, legs like tree trunks. Piercing blue eyes and a strong, well-made face with a sharp jaw.

He was respectful, too, making polite conversation, and when he asked me out, it was for a real date, to a real restaurant, not some darts tournament that was only an excuse to feel me up.

When we got married, I thought I was the luckiest woman in the world.

I was 23 and he was 37, and now at 39 he was hotter than ever, the kind of man women stared at in the street, blushed when he held a door open, and shot envious glances my way, as if to say,

How the fuck did you pull this absolute unit?

Was Grayson not as immune to all this attention as I thought he was?

After the play, I couldn’t shake the feeling this time. And I couldn’t help noticing things.

It did feel like he’d been pulling away lately.

Even more late nights at the office.

And the way he touched me at night. . .

Sometimes it seemed like he came home late at night just to avoid having to talk to me or kiss me.

I tried asking him if anything was wrong, if he was under stress at work.

When did tax season begin? Surely not in October.

But he always brushed my concerns off.

Grayson was a thoughtful and diligent husband. No matter how late he worked he still did the dishes, thanked me for dinner, made sure the lawn was mowed and my car had gas in it.

So what was it?

I felt ashamed of myself, like I was betraying his trust in me, even to have these suspicions.

It wasn’t like there was lipstick on his collar.

---