Chapter 37
JULES
This restaurant smells like old money, anxiety, and seafood. The room is stiflingly quiet, except for the clink of utensils and the booming voices of the business men Lincoln hopes to close this deal with.
The men—all fifty shades of creepy, by the way—remind me of my father and his side of the family. Bleh.
I don’t even bother to learn their names. I am itching to speak my mind. To tell the lot of them exactly what I think of them.
But today’s business lunch is important to Lincoln, and as much as these men represent everything I despise, I want this to go right for my husband.
My husband.
So when Lincoln subtly places his hand on my knee, I remember to paste on my politest smile. And when he slides his hand a little higher, giving a light squeeze, I clench my thighs together, remembering the things he promised to do to me tonight if I behave like a good girl at lunch.
Usually, I’m nobody’s good girl. But in exchange for the magic Lincoln does with his tongue, I’ll pretend to be one for the next hour, give or take.
So far, I’d say I’m making good on my promise to be on my best behavior. I had honestly expected to despise the wives of these business sharks. But these women are actually sweet, and way too good for their douche-toid husbands. I feel so bad for the ladies.
The old demons have been demeaning and disrespecting their spineless spouses throughout this entire meal. The snide comments and so-called ‘jokes’ I’ve had to witness while I’ve been seated at this table have been atrocious.
I keep trying to make conversation with the women. I want to help bring them out of their shells so I can at least get to know them a little bit. I mean, if the men are busy talking business, why can’t us ladies shoot the shit?
But I keep hitting a brick wall.
“Carol, what do you do now that your kids are grown?” I ask when I see the woman just sadly pushing her fork around her plain salad.
She startles, jabbing a thumb into her chest. “Me? Oh, I—”
“My wife is a domestic goddess,” her husband interrupts her. “Keeps the house immaculate. You won’t find a spec of dust on our baseboards. Just the way I like it.” He chuckles, wiping a smudge off his wine glass with a cloth napkin.
“Yes, that’s right.” Carol avoids my eyes and suddenly becomes interested in folding her own napkin into a tiny triangle.
Yikes.
Another one of the associates butts in. “My Belinda here, she thought about working once, saying something about fulfillment. I told her I’d fulfill the checking account, and she could fulfill the pantry.” He slaps the table, laughing with the rest of his buddies.
Belinda’s lips turn up in a tight, practiced smile as she nods dutifully. I cringe, absolutely appalled.
What the…? Lincoln would never.
This lunch is starting to feel like being stuck in a 1950s horror show.
These men won’t stop putting their wives down, blabbing on and on about how their women wanted to do nothing.
Making it sound like they begged to just stay home.
Judging by the silence coming from the women, it’s painfully obvious that their husbands are convincing no one but themselves.
And whenever the women do attempt to speak, they’re all quickly dismissed.
Lincoln throws me a pleading look, silently begging me not to set fire to this restaurant. I have so much I want to say, but I force it down. Today isn’t about me. It’s not about me.
Swallowing down a frustrated sigh, I reach for a bread roll. But before my fingertips reach the basket in the center of the table, the heavy-set business man swipes it for himself with a hefty laugh.
“Carbs are bad for your figure, little lady,” he says to me before turning to his own wife. “Isn’t that right, Greta?”
My blood singes, which is to be expected, considering how nauseous this conversation is making me. I ball my fingers into tight fists in my lap to keep from slapping the greasy osso buco sauce straight off his smug mouth.
But now that the heat is on me, Lincoln’s jaw turns to granite. Before I can give this man the verbal ass-kicking he deserves, my husband speaks up on my behalf.
“I’d bet you’re an expert on health matters since your triple bypass went so well. But I’d implore you not to worry about my wife’s figure. Because she might just rip you a new one.” He adds under his breath, “And if by some miracle she doesn’t, I gladly will.”
My stomach floods with butterflies when Lincoln sticks up for me. Even with everything that’s on the line, he chooses to be on my team. I grip his hand, giving it a firm squeeze beneath the table.
Although Lincoln’s expression is borderline murderous, the other men exchange looks and awkwardly laugh his comment off. Then they’re back to their obnoxious conversation.
This goes on through the first two courses of the meal. It’s clear these men think women belong solely in the kitchen or in the nursery. They think that women can’t handle anything more taxing or challenging or rewarding. Just cook, clean, and pop out kids.
When the men are busy arguing over which bottle of wine they’re going to order next, I lean over to Abigail. “Hey, I noticed the college logo decal on the back of your phone. You studied there, didn’t you? What was your major?”
Abigail nervously glances around. "Oh, well, I was starting to study business mana—”
"She was studying for a ring!” Abigail’s husband interrupts bitterly. “That’s what they all do, isn't it?”
“What a waste of time and money,” one of the other jerkwads laments. “And those diplomas make such terrible oven mitts, too.” He cackles, and it snaps my last nerve.
I take a swig of my wine. “Right. And we all know that nothing boosts a fragile man's ego more than strategically sidelining his partner's own achievements."
The table goes silent. No more awkward cackling. No more cringey jokes.
Only wide-eyed stares.
Looks like I trampled some unspoken rule of etiquette. Oops! Too fucking bad.
For Lincoln’s sake, I share a fake little giggle. “Oh my, the wine must be getting to me,” I slur in my sugariest voice. "It’s just that, you boys talk so much about ‘brand investment’. It’s just a shame you won't let these amazing women invest in their own dreams.”
I glance over at Lincoln, half-expecting angry smoke to be billowing out of his ears. Instead, there’s a slight smile playing on his lips and a glint of pride shining in his eyes.
I dare to step one inch further. “Belinda, I overheard you mentioning theater. Was it Broadway?"
The woman nods shyly. "I had a callback for Hamilton. But then we moved to San Diego for Dale’s first big acquisition."
My eyes turn back to the men. “See? You’ve got some really impressive women. But as brilliant as you gentlemen are, I know you already knew that or you wouldn’t have even married them,” I add, knowing that the men will soften if I stroke their big, stupid egos.
“Right.”
“Yeah.”
“Of course.”
They all mumble like testosterone-headed teenagers who got called to the principal’s office for a well-deserved scolding. I send a sneaky wink to the girls, earning a few genuine smiles. Clearly, they realize I’m firmly in their corner.
The men leave us alone after that. I finally get the chance to learn more about each of the four women without their husbands meddling.
Then after the check is settled, the asshat who seems to be the Chief-Asshat-in-Charge rises to his feet.
He announces that the men have important matters to discuss.
I hide another cringe when he adds that us girls wouldn’t want to ‘bore ourselves’ with such things.
He offers to call us taxis so we can Abigail out.
Taking the lead, I stand up, smiling brightly. “You are absolutely right. We wouldn't want to interrupt your very important work.”
“Jules…” Lincoln warns low in his throat.
I ignore him.
“Why don't I take the girls off your hands for a few hours?” I suggest.
“What does that mean?” one of the husbands asks, looking a bit nervous.
“Just a little girl time,” I say, nice as spice.
The horror on those men’s faces nearly makes me cackle. You’d think I just told them that I was taking their women to go join an orgy circus.
“We won’t get up to anything too crazy. Promise."
Their strained expressions and murmured complaints confirm my suspicions. They’d rather have their wives at home, barefoot in the kitchen, slaving around the house to prepare for their eventual triumphant returns.
Maybe some other time. I have plans for these girls today.
“Um…I don’t know if that’s a good—”
“I promise. I’ll get them all returned safely in time for dinner,” I say.
Though I can’t promise they’ll have time to cook said dinner. But I’m pretty sure these men can afford to order a pizza for once.
Lincoln squeezes my hand and gazes up at me. Then he smirks over at his associates. “They’ll be fine,” he tells them. “They’re in good hands with Jules.”
The men reluctantly agree to let their wives hang out with me, and suddenly I can hardly contain myself.
I fire off a quick text message to Alba, hoping she’s available for some spur-of-the-moment fun.
Me: Calling an emergency meeting of the girls. Your house. I’m bringing tequila and a bunch of pretty strangers. ETA 30 minutes.
My bestie responds in no time.
Alba: Let’s do this. I’m rounding up the girls.
I grin as I usher my new friends out of the restaurant. Oh, yeah. We’re about to let loose.