Page 83 of The Overtime Kiss

“And Isla can help you weed through everyone,” Everly says, clearly excited by this idea. Then she looks to Isla. “Or did you want to matchmake her?”

Bad idea.

Sabrina laughs. “I don’t think I could afford you,” she adds lightly, while I breathe in harshly.

“Iamvery exclusive. But you know I’ll help you for free. Do you want that?” Isla asks, earnestly.

“Yes, tell us what we can do for you,” Everly adds.

Sabrina shrugs lightly, but her voice is upbeat. “I think the apps are probably fine.”

Fuck me. She’s into this. My muscles are as tight as a steel cable.

“I’mtotallygoing to help you,” Isla announces. “I’m screening all your matches, and I’m giving you all the tips. I mean, Iama dating coach.”

Sabrina laughs.

But I don’t.

Because if I thought I was pissed off before, it’s nothing compared to how I feel now. I am not good at all. I’m going to blow a fuse.

I barely manage a quick goodnight to my kids before I storm out of the arena.

I drive home faster than I should, more aggressively than I’m supposed to—the way I’d never drive with my kids in the car. The way I shouldn’t drive.

I slam on the brakes at a red light, pissed and seething.

She’s going to date.

She’s going to date, and I’ll have to see it.

She’s going to date, and some other guy gets to romance her.

Worse.

Some other guy gets to give her all the things she asked me to give her on her wedding night.

I hate him with the fury of a thousand fiery hells.

When I reach the foyer, I kick off my shoes, strip off my tie, then pace along the first floor like a caged lion because I can’t fucking stand this jealousy clawing at me.

I don’t even go up to my room to change out of my suit. I’m too wound up.

I have to do something.

I have to find out what her plan is—so at least I can learn how to handle it.

I need to understand what she’s going to do so I can live with it.

The second the garage door rumbles, signaling she’s home too, I march to the top of the stairs to head her off before she can duck into her apartment for the night.

Once the door creaks open, I call out, “Do you want to watch a TV show?”

I’ve never asked her that before. But it’s a casual pretext. A way to find out more.

“Sure,” she says from the bottom of the stairs, a little tentative. “Let me just put my things down.”

“Good idea,” I say as nicely as I can, since I don’t want to lose this opening.

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