Page 98 of About that Fling
Or the faint possibility she might be right.
“I’m sorry, Mia,” he said, wanting to take the high road. Wanting to get out before things turned uglier. “I’m sorry for everything.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’ve gone and made yourself a much better life, and you can tell all the women you date how you narrowly escaped your cheating bitch of a wife. Congratulations, Adam—you sure showed me.”
He shook his head, tamping down the urge to rage back at her. “You think this is somehow my fault? You’re unhappy now, and I’m the one to blame?”
“I think it’s pretty fucking convenient you embark on this mission of self-improvement now instead of when we were married. It’s like some sort of, ‘fuck you, Mia.’”
“I see,” he said tightly, trying not to take the bait. “Despite what you seem to believe, my happiness has nothing to do with you.”
She glared at him, gripping the arm of the sofa in fingers that had gone terrifyingly white. “You’re right,” she snapped. “It never did. And you made damn sure mine had nothing to do with you, either.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but he stopped himself as Jenna flew into the room wearing a black wraparound dress that showed off her curves. Her hair was pinned up and she wore black boots with spiky heels and a spritz of perfume that made him dizzy. He wanted to gather her up in his arms and kiss her until they were both horizontal.
“You look—” he stopped himself, swallowing back the compliment and taking a step away from her, “—like you’re in a hurry. I won’t keep you ladies. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get to my meeting with Gertrude.”
“The office is down there,” Jenna said, frowning as she caught sight of his face. She glanced at Mia and he watched her frown deepen. “Is everything okay here? Did I miss something?”
Adam looked at his ex-wife. He saw all the anger, all the disappointment, all the resentment flashing in her eyes. How was it possible after three years to still feel responsible for that?
“Everything’s fine,” he said, turning to walk away.
The host at Gerlake sniffed when Mia told him there’d been a change in plans.
“The reservation is under the name Mark Dawson.” He peered down his nose at Jenna and Mia. “Are you suggesting Mr. Dawson will not be joining us this evening?”
“That’s correct,” Mia said, her voice shaking a little. Jenna reached over and squeezed her hand.
“I see.” The host did not look impressed as he consulted his tablet. “You’ve arrived at the incorrect time, which leads me to believe there’s been some sort of?—”
“We’re grabbing a drink at the bar first.” Jenna fought the urge to grab the guy by his starched lapels and shake him. “We’re aware the dinner reservation is for five-thirty, but your bar opens at four-thirty, does it not?”
“It does indeed.”
Mia shot Jenna a victorious look, but their celebration was short lived.
“I’ll need to see some identification,” the host said. “You realize that dinnertime reservations at Gerlake fill up months in advance—particularly on a holiday weekend.”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Jenna snapped, stepping forward. “Is there really a rash of people impersonating diners with reservations? I can see our table over there. It’s the one with the sterling silver roses on it, right? They’re Mia’s favorite. She had them at the wedding.”
Mia gave her a grateful smile and pulled out her ID, along with her phone. She flipped to the photo album and thrust the screen in the host’s face. “See? Right here. There’s me, there’s Mark Dawson, and there are the damn sterling silver roses. Just like the ones on the table. Do you want me to text my husband, or can we have a seat at the bar while we wait for our reservation, because my feet are killing me.”
The host gave them a dubious look, then stepped aside and waved them toward the bar. “Your table will be ready in thirty minutes.”
“Great.” Jenna grabbed Mia’s arm. “Please let me buy you the snootiest, froofiest drink on the menu.”
“Deal.”
As soon as they took their seats, the bartender gave them multi-page menus teeming with descriptions of gourmet drinks. They both consulted the mocktail section—Mia from necessity, Jenna in solidarity.
“I’ll have the Cucumber Sekanjabin Sharbat,” Jenna decided, probably slaughtering the pronunciation. “Do they really simmer mint sprigs in balsamic vinegar with honey for precisely thirty minutes? Never, like, twenty-eight or twenty-nine?”
The bartender gave her a tired look, along with a nod. He reached for a bright copper cocktail shaker as Mia studied her menu.
“The Grape Tarragon Spritzer,” she said. “But it says here the organic tarragon is muddled. I’d really prefer mine gently fondled.”
The bartender didn’t crack a smile. “I’ll have those right up.”
