Loverboy (The Company #2) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,18

in one of New York’s most elegant restaurants.

Spalding misunderstood my utterance, though, and his eyes had lit up with victory. “Good girl. Good decision. This might even teach you a few things about how to please a man. You’re smart. You might catch on.”

My head had snapped back as if I’d been punched. “Catch on?” I’d pushed my chair back suddenly. I had to put some distance between us. There was so much anger rising inside of me that the table couldn’t contain it all.

Spalding had clicked his tongue. “I didn’t mean right this moment, sweet. Have some more champagne.” He’d reached for the bottle in its wine bucket beside the table.

But I’d beat him to it. “Sure. Let’s have more.” As I hoisted it out of the icy water, I admired the label. Veuve Cliquot was seventy dollars in the liquor store. Probably twice that in the restaurant. And I was paying for it, because I was the only one earning a paycheck.

I couldn’t believe Spalding brought me here to wine and dine me on my own dime to ask me if he could sleep with other women. I didn’t even recognize him anymore.

Well then. He wouldn’t recognize me, either. I’d stood up and leaned over him as he’d raised his champagne flute toward me. But I’d tipped the bottle too far above to hit the glass, thrilling myself as the first of the foamy, golden liquid began to pour from the bottleneck onto his shiny, shiny hair.

Spalding’s shriek had made every head in the restaurant swivel towards us. “This is my favorite tie!” he’d sputtered as the last drops rained down on him.

“But attachment is the root of all suffering,” I’d said through clenched teeth. “I’m walking the path to joy right out of here.”

A waiter had approached with his hands up and open. Like he’d expected me to attack. I’d straightened my spine and handed him the bottle. “Here. This is empty. But don’t bring him another bottle. I’m divorcing his cowardly ass and he won’t have the money for vintage champagne after tonight.”

Then, in the utter silence of the stunned room, I’d lifted my briefcase to my shoulder and left without a backward glance. I’d taken the Subway to Ginny’s apartment, where I’d spent the night crying on her sofa.

The following morning I’d gone back to my own apartment at six a.m. Spalding was sitting at the kitchen table, eating peanut butter toast and coffee.

“I don’t want an open marriage,” I’d told him. “I won’t do it. If you make me choose, I’ll choose divorce.”

“Oh dear. Siddhartha said: If you find no one to support you on the spiritual path, walk alone.”

Now it’s only me who walks alone, though. These days he’s walking the path of happiness with Saroya. I called that one. Even if they didn’t start up until I’d moved out, it was still a betrayal.

Almost a year later, I’m still angry about it.

And because our divorce was technically my decision, I was forced to buy out Spalding’s marital portion of the buildings my grandparents left me. His divorce lawyer was an animal. Spalding had once dipped into inherited money to pay for my MBA, so the judge divided the property I’d eventually inherited. Never mind that I worked like a dog to see him through his so-called medical crisis. And never mind that we were only divorcing so he could boink his life coach.

Even if I’m poorer now, at least I’m free of him. Or I would be, if she ever stopped showing up.

I started a pie shop instead of a family. I’m happy with my choice. But if Spalding and Saroya are starting a family, I’m going to need to take up kickboxing, or find some other outlet for my rage. They will raise their bundle of joy next door, in the building he gained by divorcing me.

Ouch. Just ouch. I wonder if Buddha said anything useful about revenge.

I flop around in my bed, trying to get comfortable. Shoving Spalding and his new woman out of my mind isn’t easy. And I only manage it when my busy brain flips over to thinking about Gunnar Scott instead.

There’s another man who’s too attractive for his own good. Although he’s handsome in a scruffy way that’s different from Spalding’s genteel good looks.

My attraction to Gunnar began the very first night we ever worked together. I was—I can admit this now—a terrible bartender at first. I was only nineteen years old, and not a drinker.