CHAPTER ONE
(Six Months Later)
I sat at the bar, glaring suspiciously down at my apple martini.
Was this my third or fourth drink?
Whatever.
I was well on my way to plastered, and I didn’t particularly care.
Why did I even come here tonight? Oh, yeah. It was my birthday today, and Seth was supposed to be here two hours ago.
Why did I keep doing this to myself, begging for scraps of his time and affection? It was my birthday, for Pete’s sake—our birthday, since it was his birthday as well.
Admittedly, I thought it was cute when we’d first met, and that it must have been a sign from the universe that we belonged together.
Yeah, right, the universe could piss off right about now.
I was twenty-eight today, and Seth was thirty-six.
He promised me last weekend, before he left for his date, that he would make time for us to celebrate our birthdays together, just like we’d always done. But apparently that, too, was another lie. I’d called him six times already and texted him at least twice. Still, there was no answer.
I sighed and lifted my wary gaze, my eyes drifting to my reflection in the panel of reflective glass behind the bar. I’d tried so hard to look my best tonight, not just for Seth, but for myself.
My dark brown curly hair was pulled back in a half-up, half-down style that framed my face beautifully with a few escaped tendrils that disguised the recent roundness of my cheeks.
My makeup was done flawlessly, and my warm, honey brown skin didn’t look as sallow as it did a few months ago.
The bags under my eyes from the interminable amount of crying I’d done were now gone, and I looked healthy, if not happy.
I’d even worn the little black dress I’d bought recently that hugged my newly formed curves perfectly.
I wasn’t overweight, not in the slightest, but my tummy and thighs did jiggle a bit more now when I walked.
And I all of a sudden had a delectable ass.
That part I wasn’t too mad about. In a way, I kind of like the bit of weight I’d put on.
I’d always had a childlike face and was often carded when I went to bars.
Now, with my cheeks a little fuller, I looked more like the grown woman that I was.
I gave myself a mental pat on the back and whispered silently, “You look hot, Melodie.”
Seth might have been an asshole when he gave me that ultimatum, and aside from his failure to show up tonight, he’d actually been a decent enough partner these last six months.
Giving him his sexual freedom had lifted some of the tension from our home, and he was a lot easier to communicate with.
There were fewer fights, fewer tantrums and silent treatments, and my personal favorite, he was actively helping out around the house.
Especially given the recent renovations.
Seth had finally decided to turn one of our spare rooms into a second office for me so I could focus on my writing.
Which I hoped would one day blossom into a full-time career.
Seth was right. A teacher’s salary, especially a kindergarten teacher’s salary, didn’t offer much in the way of stability.
So I wanted to focus on turning my long-time passion into a career.
I’d been writing creative fiction since I was in middle school, and had even won several awards for my short stories.
There was even an article written about me in the local newspaper, titled: Meet The Next Jane Austen - Local Teen Has Promising Writing Career Ahead.
I believed my mom still had the article framed and hanging on her living room wall.
As a matter of fact, it was because of my writing that I’d gotten a full-ride to study English Literature with a minor in Early Childhood Education at NYU.
Then I graduated, and my dad got sick. And all the hopes and dreams I’d had about becoming a writer had been put on hold, as I went into teaching to help my mom with the medical bills.
In the end, the doctors couldn’t save him, but he’d made me promise to never give up on my dreams of one day becoming a published author. And thanks to Seth giving me my own space, it would seem that dream would soon be a reality.
So, yeah. Seth was an ass for his ultimatum, but in the end, if this sexual freedom benefited me in the ways of achieving my dreams, he could fuck a doorknob for all I cared.
If I were being honest—and I’d like to think that I was when it came to my mental health—I was devastated when he first started going out on dates and not coming home at night.
Only for him to walk into our house the next morning smelling like women’s perfume—one specific perfume, to be exact—then kiss me on the cheek before going to shower and joining me for breakfast as if nothing happened.
Then I grew numb to his betrayal. Because as much as I tried to rationalize it, it was a betrayal.
This was the man who’d vowed in front of our family and friends to love and protect me.
So how could he not know that this selfish decision of his would hurt me?
This wasn’t the life I’d wanted for myself when I agreed to marry him. This wasn’t the life he promised me.
Soon after the numbness had passed, resentment came.
I resented him and everything he represented.
I resented him for how he’d treated me and how he’d made me feel over the last few months.
And again, if I were being honest, I didn’t think I loved him anymore.
My heart was too battered and bruised to willingly accept him any longer.
Nevertheless, he was right. I needed him to survive. So, until I got my writing career underway, I would tolerate this heartache and betrayal. I would suffer in silence for as long as I could until I was free of him. Then I never wanted to see his face ever again.
Movement in my periphery caught my attention, and I lifted my—arguably—unsteady gaze up, and up, and up, where they landed on bright green eyes that shone like jewels in the dim light of the bar.
The stranger was tall—then again, everyone was tall.
I was only five-three—but if I were to guess, I’d say he was at least a foot taller than me.
He had bright red hair that was shorter on the sides and longer on top, and a neatly trimmed beard to match.
There was a black leather jacket slung carelessly over his shoulder, dangling from the crook of his finger.
He wore black tailored pants with a white dress shirt that had the first few buttons at his collar undone, and his sleeves rolled up to showcase brightly colored tattoos that traveled the length of his forearms, disappearing under the cuffs of his rolled sleeves.
He was impressively built, with a broad and visibly sculpted chest that looked like it would be comfortable to snuggle up against after a long night of wild monkey sex.
Even so, I still couldn’t get over how handsome he was. And oh, my maker, that hair.
Did the carpet match the drapes?
The stranger chuckled, tucking his free hand into his pocket, his shoulders loosening.
“Did I say that out loud?” I slurred.
He chuckled again. “I’m afraid so, darling.”
Darling?
His voice was deep, with a lilting Irish accent that made the word darling seem even more panty-melting.
He threw his head back and laughed, showcasing straight white teeth and a gorgeous smile.
“Oh,” I said a bit incoherently. “I said that part out loud, too, didn’t I?”
He nodded. “That you did.”
“Oh, no.” I wrinkled my nose, finally feeling the effects of those six martinis. “I’m sorry. I think I’m drunk.”
“I think you are, too,” the stranger said, before calling out to the bartender. “Hey, Frank, can I get a cup of coffee for the lovely lady?”
The bartender, Frank, answered him, but I wasn’t sure what the response was because I was too busy watching the stranger’s arms flex as he pulled a barstool closer to me and straddled it, dumping his leather jacket onto the bar top in the process.
Then he turned his bright green gaze back to me and smiled. “Frank is going to get you coffee, and you’re going to drink it for me, okay?”
I let out a weird snort-scoff combo that would have been highly impressive if I were capable of higher brain function.
“This is a bar,” I slurred again. “They don’t have coffee here.”
At least, I think they didn’t. I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t been to a bar in over a year. Maybe they did things differently now.
Maybe this was a full-service bar. They could probably get me a pedicure if I asked.
The stranger snorted, his eyes bright with mischief.
“No pedicures. And no, this isn’t a full-service bar.
Frank and I go way back, so he’ll do me this solid.
Also, you probably might want to stop saying your inner thoughts out loud.
Personally, I don’t mind. I think your wayward thoughts are adorable.
But I also think you might be a little mortified when you’re a bit more sober and can remember this interaction. ”
“Oh,” I said, my shoulders slumping in defeat. “I’m sorry. I’m just having a really bad night.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, darling. How can I make it better?”
“I…”
Was he flirting with me? It had been so long since anyone of the opposite sex had shown interest in me, I might be imagining things.
This man was drop-dead gorgeous. Why would he be interested in me?
I opened my mouth to say something—what? I wasn’t sure yet—but the bartender set down a mug of steaming hot coffee in front of me, and my brain went to mush.
I loved coffee, in any and every form. Heck, I would trade Seth for a cup of coffee. And it didn’t have to be good coffee, either. I would sayonara his ass so fast, his head would spin. Nothing came between me and a caffeine fix.
So, when the stranger with the Irish accent gently pried the martini glass from my fingers, I didn’t protest.
What was surprising, however, was the bolt of electricity that shot through me at the brush of his fingers against mine.
He must have felt it too, because he sucked in a soft breath, his warm eyes instinctively landing on mine.