Filthy Vows (Filthy Vows #1)(19)

“It wasn’t exactly the best moment for him to enter our conversation,” I said dryly.

She smiled as her fingers darted over the screen. “I know, right? Did you see his face?”

The absence of concern was one of the reasons I loved her. It was also, in my stressful moments, one of the more annoying aspects of our friendship. Everything in Chelsea’s life seemed to be fixed by money or sex. She worked for her father’s media conglomerate and enjoyed unchallenged job security, her own hours, a never-ending bank account, and enough one-night stands to impress even the most voracious sluts.

The tuna appetizer was delivered and I pulled my chair closer to the table, eagerly diving into the tartare mountain.

“Before I forget.” Chelsea looked up from her phone. “I’ve got a client for E.”

“An athlete?”

“Yep. Nicole Fagnani—heard of her?”

I hadn’t, but that didn’t mean anything. When it came to professional athletes and sports, my Rolodex of knowledge was pretty slim. “What sport does she play?”

Chelsea gave me an exasperated look. “Tennis, Elle. I swear to God, do you pay any attention to anything? Nicole is the one who tied Agassi in that charity match back in December. Agassi, Elle.”

I’d heard of Agassi. I struggled to remember why. “He’s married to someone famous, right?”

“Oh my God, stop it.” She dipped a crisp cracker into the tuna. “Anyway, Nike just signed her to some ridiculous contract and she’s doing ad shoots next week. I thought you could come with E, and I could make the introduction.”

“Who is her current FA?” I turned over the idea in my head. After Easton was dropped by the Marlin’s, he decided to use his finance degree to stay in Miami and advise professional athletes. At least, that was the plan. I swear to God, his entire career plan was hatched after three beers and a single episode of Ballers. Only, unlike Dwayne Johnson and his big house and bevy of exotic cars, we were staring at mounting credit card debt and a house that seemed to be on the verge of collapse.

“Who knows or cares? She’ll take one look at your husband and sign up for whatever shit he’s peddling.” She waved off the concern as if Easton’s looks were some magic potion that turned intelligent women into idiots.

Though… I glanced down at the diamond on my left ring finger. I was a pretty shining example of exactly that. When he proposed, he’d been puffed up on dreams of the big leagues. Jets. Packed stadiums. Vacation mansions and household staffs. Ferraris and monster contracts. All things he thought would impress me, but I’d bought into Easton North for an entirely different set of factors—factors he still possessed in spades. Charm. Looks. Wit. Heat. A lethal combination that would be difficult for any woman to resist.

“Is she pretty?”

Chelsea shot me a bewildered look. “Would it matter? Don’t tell me you’re suddenly insecure about your marriage. You know E’s crazy about you. And I thought he needed more clients.”

“He does,” I said sharply. My husband’s client list was scrawny—a few baseball players he’d picked up using every pro connection he had, plus a young golfer who seemed more intent on partying than winning. He’d had a few nice paychecks, but nothing that was easing the tight grip that settled on my chest with each round of monthly bills. “Send him the shoot details. I’ll give him a heads up.”

“And no,” she remarked mildly. “She isn’t that pretty. But really, Elle.” She cocked a blonde brow at me. “Jealousy is not your color.”

Was it anyones? Maybe it was our frank conversation where Easton had told me about his symposium flirt, or my guilt over my rampant fantasies, but I was feeling extra possessive over my husband. And maybe a little insecure, especially where a successful and athletic potential client was involved.

My phone chimed, saving me from a witty retort I didn’t have. I made a big show over picking up my bag and shuffling through its contents, moving aside the doomed inspection report and finding the slim phone. “Speak of the devil.” I smiled and opened the text from E. Reading the short message, my mood sank.

Just got a call from Aaron. Becca just served him with divorce papers. Says she’s in love with someone else.

“Oh my God.”

“What?” Chelsea grabbed for my phone, wanting to read the message.

I held it out of her reach. “Becca’s divorcing Aaron. She’s been cheating on him.”

Her eyes widened, exposing her brilliantly applied purple shadow. “And she’s leaving him? Why the fuck would she cheat on Aaron?”

I thought of yesterday’s dermatology appointment. The male barista at the coffee shop I swung by three mornings a week. The fantasies that were starting to batter against my morality every single day. Would I be Becca one day? While I would never leave Easton, would two of my friends incredulously critique my cheating over an appetizer and watered-down drinks?

I unstuck the back of one leg from the plastic seat and crossed my legs, pinning my hands underneath my thighs. “Maybe we should call her.”

Chelsea hummed out a bar of trepidation. “I don’t know. Aaron’s E’s best friend. Our alliances seem pretty clear.”

Yes, in the world of divisions, the choice was easy. The skanky wife or the grieving husband. Our friend or his cheating wife. What good would an olive branch be? Did she even deserve a friendly gesture?