Page 24 of Returning Your Love
A muscle ticked in my cheek, and I focused on my dinner, regretting having pushed to eat out with her. Stomach continuing to knot, I had to force myself to finish my food.
The door opened behind me for the fifth or sixth time since we’d sat down.
“Hey, Jamie! Chief Sutton!” Shelly called all happy-like, and my breath kicked from my lungs like I’d been punched in the sternum.
Fuck. I do not need this right now.
Wiping my lips with a napkin, I straightened and turned to find both men readying to sit in the booth behind us where Addy had led them.
“Chaz,” Sutton greeted with a nod. “Shelly.”
“Chief.” I glanced at Jamie. “How’s it going?”
I could read the hesitation and wariness in Jamie’s glance before he gave Shelly his attention. “It’s going. Looking good, Shelly,” he said, his smile forced.
“Just got my hair done,” Shelly said.
I could imagine her flouncing the red curls over her shoulders but couldn’t be bothered to face my wife. Jamie held me rapt with his backwards cap, the energy of his presence and the red-checkered shirt stretched over his pecs and muscular shoulders rousing my dick to life.
Fucking hell, this man.
Turning back around, I focused on my plate, annoyed I’d forgotten it sat emptied. I glanced at Shelly’s oversized bowl to find she’d wiped out her salad. “You about ready to go?” I asked quietly, needing to get the hell out of there.
“You two care to join us?” Shelly asked rather than answering me.
No—please God, say no.
“Thanks, but we wouldn’t want to intrude,” Chief said, and I exhaled a lungful of pent-up anxiety.
“Oh, no biggie!” Shelly insisted, all sunshine and smiles. “I didn’t feel like cooking, so we just dropped in real quick for a bite to eat. It’s no hot date or anything.”
Yeah, okay.
She stabbed me in what was left of my heart with that lie. I’d practically had to beg for her to agree when she bitched daily about us never getting out of the house together anymore.
“Maybe some other time,” Jamie said, and Shelly ran with it, making plans he wouldn’t say no to even if he’d wanted to.
In two weeks, he’d be coming over for dinner. She would create a delicious dish—he could bring the wine.
A few minutes later, I exited Dig-In behind my wife, hands shoved into my pockets because I couldn’t stand the thought of touching her lower back or threading my fingers through hers insight of Jamie. Not that she’d want me to do that anyway. She’d shied away the last couple of times I’d attempted some sort of affection…back in June, maybe?
But she could hang on me to put on a show whenever she talked me into going to Frenchie’s and drank until she couldn’t walk straight.
I dragged ass to my truck and hopped in. She shut her door loudly behind her, huffed, and crossed her arms.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” she asked, her tone bitchy as usual. “You practically cringed when I invited them to sit with us.”
“Not in the mood to socialize,” I said as an excuse.
“Yeah, you made that pretty clear by completely ignoring me over dinner.”
“You weren’t exactly chatty yourself, Shell.” My clipped words revealed annoyance that would, without a doubt, start a fight.
Sure enough, Shelly ranted throughout our short three minute drive. We both slammed truck doors before stomping into the house. She went for the liquor cabinet. I headed to the guest room/office across the hall from ours.
“Straight to work!” she hollered, sarcasm heavy in her voice.
“I have bills to pay!” I yelled back, lying my ass off since I’d taken care of the house shit last week. Others statements piled up at the shop, but she didn’t need to know the truth of my hiding away in the office. She could guess though. If I wasn’t escaping to the shower, this room, with its small desk shoved in the corner with my computer and papers, became my hideaway whenever she went on a rampage.
