If You Only Knew(72)

“Babe,” Adam says, and I just stand there, frozen.

At least my outfit is better today. That’s my first thought. Last time, I looked like a child. Today, I look pretty hot. Not as hot as she does, granted, but hot for me. Today, her dress is a very tight red knit with a slit in the front, a wide neckline, long sleeves. She’s one of those women whose sexiness comes from what she doesn’t show, not from what she does, apparently. Her red hair is in a high ponytail, and I remember a comment from Jake Golden at a country-club function once—redhead in a red dress equals instant erection. Jake Golden is an ass. That being said, yes, Adam seems to have an erection.

I should go. Clearly, this is the moment when the wife walks out, proudly, head high, shoulders back, and goes...um...where? Where does the wife go? Well, hey, I’m in a big-ass law firm. I should go to one of the family law attorneys, right? Or Jared. I could go to Jared’s office—much bigger than Adam’s, much more prestigious—but no, he’s out tasting cakes. If my father were still alive, I’d go to him and cry on his shoulder till I was all cried out. Jenny’s. I’ll go to Jenny. Or home. Except the girls will sense I’m upset, and they’ll act up because of it. Happens every time.

My hand is still on the doorknob.

“I’ll go,” Emmanuelle says. She grabs a tissue and wipes her eyes, then slips out of the office. Her hand brushes my bare arm, and I leap back as if she has leprosy.

“Rachel,” Adam says in a low voice. “Come in. Close the door.”

I obey, standing in front of the couch where he explains tax loopholes to his clients or confers with Bruce, his paralegal, or f*cks his mistress.

“Have a seat,” he says.

“No.”

“This is not what it seems,” he says. “She’s having a hard time with...me ending things. She came in here, very upset, and threw herself at me. That’s what you saw.”

“How stupid do you think I am, Adam?”

“I don’t think you’re stupid.”

“You’re still sleeping with her.”

“No! No, I am not sleeping with that woman.”

“Save it. Enjoy single life.”

I turn to leave, but he grabs my arm, and his face is suddenly furious. “You want a divorce? Do you really want a divorce, Rach? You want to get the girls every other week? You want them to have a stepmother? You want to move to some shitty apartment? Because last time I checked, I’m the one who pays the bills around here.”

“So what does that mean? You get to screw around? You get to cheat on me, because I stay home to raise our children? You think a judge isn’t going to squeeze every last dime out of you, Adam? You think Jared Brewster will let you keep working here?”

Something ugly flickers across his face. “Right. Too bad you couldn’t marry him. All those years wasted, waiting for him to notice you.”

I don’t dignify that with a response. “I’m taking the girls to Jenny’s. Have a wonderful weekend. I’m sure your slut will be thrilled that you’re free.”

And I do walk out, head held high, shoulders back. I make it to the car before I throw up. Right in the backseat.

Jenny

Even though I’ve seen Leo in a suit once before—sleeping in his ratty lawn chair—the sight of him clean-shaven, groomed and dressed to kill is a little...uh...wow.

Gray suit. Black shirt. Gray patterned tie. He looks like he stepped out of the pages of GQ, all tall and kind of thin, making me want to cook for him. His hair curls off his forehead, and his eyes are so... And those heartbreaking cheekbones...

“Close your mouth,” he says. “Are you ready?”

“Oh. Yes. Uh-huh.”

“Come on, Jenny. Snap out of it.”

“You look... You’re beautiful.”

His brow wrinkles with an incredulous look. “Can we get this show on the road? You look nice, by the way.”

I manage to close my mouth. “I better. I spent a fortune on this dress.”

“Impressing the old boyfriend. A staple of the female psyche.”

“It’s more like ‘impressing the ex-husband’s wife,’ but yes.”

Tonight’s the dinner at Owen and Ana-Sofia’s, and of course I bought a new dress. I’m a clothing designer. Clothes are maybe the one area in which I can claim a slight edge on Ana-Sofia. Not that it’s a competition; she was crowned the victor a good while back. Whatever the case, I’m wearing a Catherine Deane white embroidered dress with leather trim and my suede gray-and-black leopard print Manolo shoes. Don’t judge me. Whenever I buy an outfit that costs this much, I donate the same amount to a charity. Plus, I have to look gorgeous as part of my PR program for Bliss—or so I justify my clothes-whore ways to myself.

“You’re driving, by the way,” Leo says. “Hang on, I’ll get Loki.”

“What? No, you won’t. Loki’s not coming!”

“He is, or I’m not.” He gives me a patient, pitying look. “Jenny, what if he has a seizure? I’m not leaving him.”

“But I didn’t tell them we were bringing a dog.”

“So what? Throw them off their game a little. Fuck up their perfect little world. Maybe Loki will do you a favor and puke on the new wife.”