“They come in women’s sizes, if you’re interested.”
I lifted my gaze to his face and blushed. “I’m not interested, thanks.”
“Oh, the bitter sting of rejection.” He cupped his hand to his chest, wounded.
“I have a feeling your shorts will recover.” Why was I still talking? I should have been standing up to gather my trash and put away my laptop. I made a conscious move to lift the green coffee cup with my left hand, clearly exposing the diamond wedding band. Would he notice? Did he even care? Maybe this was just friendly conversation between two adults. I was too out of practice to know.
“I haven’t seen you here before.” He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He was a few years younger than me. Maybe thirty-five. Maybe as young as thirty-two. His voice held an accent, and my ears played detective with the sounds of it.
I cleared my throat. “Well, you wouldn’t have. I’m not normally in the area. I’m traveling through on business.”
On business. I warmed to the unexpected lie. But what business? Maybe he wouldn’t ask. And anyway, wasn’t I leaving? I should have been leaving. Stand up, Lillian. Stand up right now.
“Ah, business.” He gestured to the computer. “Let me guess. Insurance sales.”
“That’s a very specific guess, but no.” Shit. I needed a business, and my mind grasped wildly at straws.
“Divorce attorney?”
My good mood sank, and I fought to keep the smile on my face. “Not even close.” I grabbed my crumpled napkin and stirrer and he groaned.
“No, don’t do the clean-up-your-table thing. Please. If I don’t get it right on the next guess, then I promise that you can leave.” French, definitely a French accent.
I laughed despite myself. “You’re not going to get it.” And how could he? I didn’t even know it.
“Is it bigger than a bread box?”
“What?” I laughed again, and I was being too loud. Two tables over, a teenager shot me an annoyed expression and rattled her bracelets.
“Twenty questions. It’s a game. I ask you twenty questions about an item, and if I don’t figure out the answer, then I lose. The bread-box question is fairly standard,” he explained, “though the game is normally not about a job.”
“I’m a calendar buyer.” I don’t know why, of all the possible lies, that one came out—except that Taylor Fortwood was still heavy on my mind, and I was still amazed at the idea that selecting calendars for stores to stock was a real job.
He paused, then gave me a rueful look that admitted defeat. “Well. I would have needed more than twenty questions for that.”
“I know. I hate to set someone up for failure.” Okay, Lillian. Stand up. You have your trash, your cup in hand. Stand, slide your laptop into your bag, and go. You’ve been friendly; now it’s time to leave.
“I’m David.” He extended his hand.
I hesitated, then slid my palm into his. “Taylor.”
And just like that, my fake life began.
Some women careened into deception with reckless disregard, but I slid, on my bottom, slowly down the hill, bumping along and using my feet to stop myself if I started to get out of control. That first day, it was just an introduction and a simple lie about my name and occupation. David went his way, and I went mine, and no one was harmed in the transgression. It was my butt hitting the grass, my legs jutting out and pointing down the hill, my mind deciding whether I wanted to push forward and begin my descent.
It was nice, having someone smile at me. Pay attention to me. Laugh at my witty remarks.
It was nice, wearing the skin of another woman, even if I was the only one who knew of her intricacies.
Maybe that was what my husband was keeping from me. A search for another life more exciting than our own.
CHAPTER 8
LILLIAN
Two hours later, I held my purse over my head and jogged through the Oyster House parking lot, cursing at the rain, which increased in ferocity as I got closer to the double doors.
I escaped into the interior and shook the rain off my bag, looking for Sam. The Oyster House was a tetanus-worthy dump with a sliver of a beach view. Their draw was in their cheap gulf oysters and ice-cold beer served in frozen mugs. I moved through the crowded tables and spotted Sam at a booth by the bathrooms. I was late, but he was used to that. He considered tardiness a sign of disrespect but always delivered the criticism with a smile.
“Hello, my love.” I bent over to receive his standard kiss on each cheek. “Sorry for being late. You know. Traffic.” I waved a hand in the general direction of the 405.
“No worries—it’s given me a chance to scope out the local talent.”
“Any hot surfers?” I asked and stole a sip of his beer.
“No, just suits and tourists.”
Sam, who had a weakness for shirtless and sandy athletes, was on a yearlong dry spell. I’d been supportive. I’d played matchmaker. I’d analyzed dating profiles and social media messages and listened to a dozen bad-date recaps, which had been entertaining but dismal. Another reason to hang on to my neurotic yet stable husband, even if he was hiding something from me. As chapter 2 had pointed out, it might not be a woman; it might be a gambling debt or drug habit. It was pathetic that I was almost hoping for those—though my husband, a man who had read the owner’s manual on our new microwave before using it, would never gamble or use drugs. Sadly, he was above such weak activities.
A woman, though . . . Was he above that? According to my new book, affairs were often more than just carnal need. They were about receiving attention or fighting insecurity. Which . . . after twenty minutes of quasi-flirting with the man in the coffee shop, I could almost understand. The attention of a strange man was intoxicating. I kept thinking about the way his eyes had been pinned on mine, as if he couldn’t wait to hear the next thing I said.
I tried to refocus. “You act like you couldn’t be with a suit. Trust me, there’s nothing wrong with bedding someone with a high attention to detail.”
He raised a brow. “Says the woman whose husband hasn’t tapped her calculator in . . . months?”
“Easy,” I said sharply and gave him a warning glare.
“Sorry.” He raised his hands in surrender and stepped into the one subject I really didn’t want to talk about. “How is your other half?”
“Umm . . .” I looked around for a waiter. “Not great. I mean, Mike seems fine. But like you said”—I reluctantly met his eyes—“he’s been distant. It’s like there’s a wall between us and I can’t figure out what it’s made of.”
He winced. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Have you given any more thought to—”
“Don’t say it,” I warned. “Please. That was a weak moment, fueled by Jäger.” While tucked into Sam’s side at our Fourth of July barbecue, I’d shared that I was thinking of leaving Mike. We’d been alone in the living room, the rest of the party outside by the firepit, and I had been feeling uncharacteristically emotional and irritated by Mike, who had spent most of the evening chatting up our buxom new neighbor—a conversation he’d sworn was only in the interest of securing a new client.