Page 8 of The Sexy Billionaire

“Baby, put the tomato down.”

“No.”

“I won’t tell you then,” he bites back.

The audacity of this motherfucker. I hurl the tomato at him and miss. Again.

Dammit.

“Paige, stop it.”

“No, you stop it, Michael. You’re the one who is cheating on me. You deserve all the tomatoes.”

“We won’t have anything left for service tonight,” he yells back.

This stills me for a moment and my eyes narrow on him. He’s right, I’m throwing away good produce, and that’s not good for the bottom line.

“Would you rather I throw knives instead?” I bite back.

Michael stills, unsure if I mean it or not.

“You’re safe. Orange doesn’t look good on me, so it’s your fucking lucky day.”

“I’m sorry, Pea,” he says, using his pet name for me. It always made me cringe.

“How long?” I ask him again.

“Does it matter?”

“It matters to me. You owe me that,” I tell him as I wipe away my tears.

“On and off for a year.”

My stomach does somersaults. A year. One whole year. I can’t. How could he do that to me? One fucking year. We’ve only been married for two. Half our marriage.

“Have there been others?” I question him.

“Paige, I think we should talk about this at home.” He tries to steer the conversation away from answering the question.

“No. You will answer me now. Have there been more?”

“Yes,” he answers reluctantly.

Of course there have been. “Who?”

“Lucy.”

I’m going to be sick. He’s fucking our head waitress, too. No wonder he doesn’t have time to fuck me; he’s got two other women on the go.

“And there’s been others over the years,” he confesses.

Others, as in multiple.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Paige, I need a release to help me be great. I’m an artist.”

Is he serious right now?

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