You Know I Love You (You Are Mine #3) - Willow Winters Page 0,8

therefore blind as a bat.

“Pumpkin spice,” Maddie says as she sets a hot cup of coffee down in front of me. She doesn’t look me in the eyes, like she’s afraid doing even that will make me cry.

The strong scent of cinnamon smacks me in the face, but I wrap my hand around the cup, giving her a grateful smile as she takes her seat to my right. I don’t like flavored coffee—I don’t even like pumpkin, but I’ll drink it. I desperately need the caffeine.

My gaze travels to Sue, sitting straight across from me as she returns to the conversation and says, “He says it’s not what it looks like?” Her brow quirks as she adds, “… And what does that mean?” It’s not a question, it’s an accusation and the two of us know it.

“What does what mean?” Maddie asks innocently, the legs of her chair scraping along the floor.

“It means he’s lying,” Sue answers matter-of-factly and folds the newspaper over, reading the article again. It’s only a paragraph, maybe two. It doesn’t say much other than the fact that Samantha Lapour and her husband James are now separated, due to an affair she had with my husband, Evan Thompson. Which is a blatant lie. Their marriage has been on the rocks for months and they were separated long before this happened.

Inwardly I cringe at defending my husband at all. An affair is an affair. In an effort to ease the guilt that weighs down my chest, I rub the small spot just below my collarbone.

Maddie’s expression turns hard with a look of warning that would normally make me laugh considering how petite and naïve she is. “We’re talking about Evan,” she says under her breath. Her eyes stay on Sue, who slowly purses her lips and acknowledges Maddie with only a short nod.

The newly divorced Suzette doesn’t give men a chance to explain. For good reason, seeing as how she’s been through hell and back.

“I’m sorry,” Maddie whispers and then clings to her own coffee. French vanilla if I had to guess.

“It’s fine,” I say lowly, shaking off the emotions rocking through my body and easing the tension at the table. “There’s no reason for us to get into this.” I don’t look at either of them, blowing on the hot coffee and reluctantly drinking it. I don’t taste it on the way down, though.

“Well, what do you think?” Maddie asks me and then she puts down her own cup. The coffee shop on Madison Avenue is fairly empty, probably due to the rain and chill of the late fall in the air.

As the shop door opens with a small chime and the busy sounds of the street flood into the small space for a moment, I think of how to answer her.

I don’t know what to say.

I think he cheated on me.

I think he’s sorry and he regrets it.

I think he loves me. No, I know he loves me.

And I feel like a fool for still loving him and wanting him.

That’s what’s in my head as I look around the small coffee shop, taking in every detail of the bright white chair rail and cream walls. The framed macro photographs of coffee pots and coffee beans keep my attention a little longer. I’ve never really noticed them before. This place is so familiar, yet I couldn’t have described any of these details if someone had asked me. I’ve been coming here for years and yet I’d never cared enough to look at what was right here in front of me.

“Why would he lie to you?” Maddie asks, pulling my attention back to her. She huffs, sitting back and causing the chair to grind against the floor as she does. “I just can’t imagine Evan doing this.” My shoulders rise with a deep intake of breath as I pick at a small square napkin on the table.

I roll the tiny piece I’ve ripped off between my forefinger and thumb, watching as it crumples into a small ball.

“I don’t know why,” I answer softly. I can feel all the overwhelming sadness and betrayal rise up and make my throat tighten as I try to come up with a response. “Maybe I’m stupid, but I can’t remember him ever lying to me before.” I swallow thickly and flick the tiny ball onto the table. “Not like this.” Defeat drips from my words.

“Sorry,” I tell them and wipe under my tired eyes, hating that I could possibly feel the telltale