Page 32 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

“Only if you promise not to steal any of my fries,” Remy cuts in, leaning back on the creaking booth seat.

“That’s fine.” I close the menu and smile at the waitress. “Thank you.”

“Bring us a couple of shakes too, please,” Remy says.

“Strawberry?” The waitress scratches something down on her notepad.

“Yeah.”

“What other flavors have you got?” I cut in.

“Strawberry’s the best,” Remy answers.

“To you.” I arch my brows at him, then look at the waitress.

She grins. “Strawberry, vanilla, chocolate, and salted caramel.”

“Salted caramel, please.” I give her a sweet smile, then glance pointedly at Remy. “Thank you.”

The waitress leaves to punch in the order, and Remy grins. “So,” he says. “How’s the Organizing Goddess feeling today?”

Horny. Wrung out. Vaguely panicked. “Good,” I answer. “You?”

“Better,” he says.

My phone rings before he can continue. “Sorry,” I tell him, then reach into my purse to silence the call. When I see my ex-husband’s name on the screen, my stomach drops. I ignore the call, put my phone on silent, and paint a smile on my face before looking at Remy again.

But when I meet his gaze, he’s frowning. “Is something wrong?”

I shake my head. “No. Why?”

He glances at my purse. “Bad news?”

“A call from my ex-husband is always bad news,” I say, aiming for breeziness and landing somewhere in the land of bitter divorcées.

“You guys have kept in touch?”

I snort, playing with the edge of my napkin. “Not really. He had an affair and when I confronted him about it, he asked me for a divorce. Once everything was finalized, I pretty much vowed to never speak to him again.”

“So what happened?”

“I became the Organizing Goddess,” I answer lightly. “He wants to hire me to redo his kitchen. Or rather, his wife does.”

“Is she…”

“The affair partner? Yep.” I pinch my lips, shaking my head. “I’d just gotten that call before I crashed into your tree.”

Remy whistles. “Bad day.”

“I don’t know why it rocked me so badly. I should have just hung up on her and gone on with my life.”

The booth squeaks as Remy shifts, slinging his arm across the back of the seat. His tee strains against his chest, tattoos poking out from the sleeves. He drums his fingers on the top of the booth, studying me. “Why didn’t you?”

“Need the money,” I admit, ashamed. “More so now that I crashed my van and ended up in the hospital.”

“Hmm.”

“And maybe…” I pause, trying to put my feelings into words. This isn’t something I’ve ever admitted out loud, or even to myself. “Maybe I feel like if I’m able to be the bigger person, it’ll fix things somehow. Help me move on. If I can prove to myself—prove to him—that I can do that job, it means I win. He didn’t break me. Maybe…” I close my eyes. “This is so embarrassing. But maybe I want him to see how well I’m doing, and realize he was wrong to cheat on me.”

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