Page 2 of Infidelity Rules

Daily Special

Ricotta-stuffed meatballs in lemon broth with fried sage

Shaved baby artichoke salad

Bucatini with fresh sardines and wild fennel fronds

I’m pouring the last of the wine for my customers when I overhear a woman sighing with pleasure as she chases a forkful of chef’s pasta with a sip of a juicy Sicilian white, my suggested wine pairing.

Yes! A good match . I’m delighted I was able to provide her with this tiny bit of joy.

I love wine. I love food. I love the magic that happens when a great glass of wine pairs perfectly with a dish.

It’s lusty and romantic, the only goal sheer and immediate pleasure.

It’s akin to the ideal relationship, fleeting but swoon-worthy, each bringing out the very best in the other.

The wine becomes a better version of itself, and the flavors of the food become more vivid, livelier and, if you get a lucky match, the combination will make you moan. I swear it will.

This is what I live for. And it’s what I strive to do as a sommelier for my customers at Persimmon.

If only love matches were as easy as pairing food and wine.

Stupendous failure would accurately describe all my past relationships, so I don’t date single men anymore.

I have affairs with married men instead.

But I never, ever play with men in happy marriages.

Nor do I mess around with anyone that has children.

Either would be like sabotaging the dream food and wine team — barbarian indeed.

I’m smiling at the woman’s utter food bliss and daydreaming about my next meal when I feel the heat of a man from across the dining room.

Not just any man. My Mystery Man. The one whose mere presence zaps my appetite, flushes my cheeks and makes me want to giggle like a schoolgirl mooning over her first crush.

Mentioning him to Dezi this afternoon must have brought me good juju because he doesn’t come around that often.

I wonder if he’s married.

Tonight, I find out , I think to myself as I watch him stroll toward the bar, all long legs, muscular shoulders and towering, hoop-star height.

I find myself wafting toward this mystery man almost imperceptibly, like a carb-starved dieter trailing after the luscious aroma of freshly baked bread.

I bid a hasty goodnight to the last of my diners and pray I’m able to sneak behind him on my blade-thin stilettos to get a peek at his ring finger.

Come on wedding ring. Come on wedding ring. Come on wedding ring , my thoughts flash like a meditative chant in my head.

Okay. Here goes, I think, hoping my colossal, hold-you-in panties are doing their job. I did not, per Dezi’s suggestion, wiggle out of them earlier.

Except now Chef is beckoning me from the kitchen. And he’s holding out a huge bowl of his steaming meatballs. Mmmmm. These are moan-worthy, make-your-eyes-roll-to-the-back-of-your-head, meatballs.

But I want to catch My Mystery Man before he disappears again, which is what usually happens. I need to find out if he’s married. But those meatballs …

Do I want the man or the meat? Man or meat? Gah! What to do?

Man it is.

I find him alone at the candlelit marble bar nursing what appears to be a whiskey, neat.

Our bar is separate from the dining room and manages to be sexy and cozy at the same time.

I’d be equally comfortable in a slinky cocktail dress or well-worn jeans and boots.

I love the low-lit, old-school crystal chandeliers, deep warm wood tones, candlelight en masse and the crazy-comfortable barstools.

If I didn’t already spend enough time at Persimmon, I would be a regular here.

I watch Mister Mysterious settle in and sip his drink.

He fills out the barstool with his impressive frame, his shoulders dwarfing the deep green high-backed leather chairs.

I need to stop staring and start moving.

What I should do is be cool and keep my distance, but I can’t seem to help myself.

I’m sucked into his orbit and am now almost close enough to sit in his lap. Or lick him.

Good grief, Quinn. Get ahold of yourself.

The man swivels his barstool towards me and smiles.

“Join me?” he asks, rising and pulling out the stool next to him. “What can I get you?”

Oh my god, he’s even sexier up close. Dark, tousled hair. Orthodontic perfect teeth. And a smile that lights his eyes and carves a single jelly bean dimple into his otherwise chiseled, Hollywood face.

“I can’t stay long,” I lie, sitting down regardless and smiling at this fabulously tall wall of man in front of me. “I have plans.”

I attempt a furtive glance at his ring finger, but no luck. Crap.

“I’ll take whatever time I can get,” he says playfully. “I’ve seen you here before. You are most definitely hard to miss.”

I cannot help but smile at that.

“I work here,” I say, inching closer to him. “I’m the sommelier.”

“Ahhhh,” he says, drumming his fingers on the bar and revealing — finally, but damnit — a naked ring finger. Sigh. It appears he’s single. Just my luck.

I deflate. I need to exit and fast, but I can’t seem to drag myself away. I’m too distracted by his muscular forearms peeking from his partially rolled-up sleeves.

“Clearly that’s where I’ve gone wrong,” he says in this hypnotic, radio news voice. “I’m more of a whiskey or beer guy. Something tells me I may have to make an exception here soon.”

“Well, perhaps I’m biased, but you’re missing out,” I say, crossing my bare legs and turning ever so slightly toward him. “I bet I could find a wine you would enjoy.”

Shit, I say to myself. What are you doing? Naked hand! Naked hand! You’ve been down this road before. No more single men. Walk away.

“Oh yeah? I’ll take that bet. But I’m pretty sure I’d enjoy anything you poured for me,” he says, taking a sip of his drink and slowly turning my barstool with his foot so I’m facing him directly.

My brain tells me to run, but my body tells me otherwise.

I want to touch his hair. Squeeze his bicep.

Stroke, well, just about anything on this man.

I briefly entertain the thought of attempting a fling but quickly extinguish it.

It won’t work, it never does. I’ve tried the no-strings-attached dating without success.

Men are either looking for a one-night-stand or for a girlfriend to play house, there’s rarely any middle ground.

I want the romance, the seduction and the all-consuming, mind-blowing infatuation that comes with a new crush.

With married men, that’s exactly what I get—all sizzle with no chance of passion fading into the great big yawn of girlfriend or wifely duties. I get to be pursued. And it’s perfect.

No Single men, Quinn. Walk away. Now.

But I can’t. I’m acutely aware of his fingertips dangling over the bar and gently grazing my bare leg. My entire body has been condensed to this one tiny spot just above my knee. I swear the electricity generated is zapping my IQ points.

We have slowly closed in on one another and I’m now near enough to smell the smoky, caramel whiskey on his breath. And to see that he’s just a few hours past needing a shave. So, so sexy, this one.

“Marcus,” he says, taking my hand.

“Quinn,” I reply, surprised I even remember my own name.

The universe is torturing me. I’m aware he may indeed be married, despite his ringless finger, but I can’t risk it.

I’m too attracted to this guy. If he’s not married, I’d be in trouble, fast. He’s a walking, talking, breathing recipe for hot sex and heartbreak, the latter I’m not willing to gamble on.

“You mentioned you have plans tonight. When do you have to leave?” Marcus asks. He smiles down at me, and I find myself looking up into a pair of Tahoe blue eyes with lashes I would gladly give up wine for. Okay, maybe not wine, but close.

“Soon,” I say, glancing at my non-existent watch.

I know I should go. But all I want to do is stay and shamelessly flirt. Marcus is very much my type — tall, broad-shouldered, an easy laugh and just disheveled enough to be squarely in the man category. This is no Lululemon shopping, hair product wearing, man purse carrying metrosexual. No indeed.

HELLO! Quinn! He’s NOT MARRIED. He is the exact opposite of your type , I shout to myself. Do NOT get involved.

“I’d like to see you again,” says Marcus.

Yes! For the love of god, YES, my whole body is screaming . But I don’t choose well. I either love too much or not enough.

I slowly stand up, which inches me even closer to him. I have to get out of here.

“I’d like that,” I say in spite of myself. “You know exactly where to find me.”

What are you doing? Stop flirting.

My brain and my body are at war.

As I turn to leave, he stands as well and gently puts a hand on my hip. He leans in, puts his lips next to my ear and whispers, “I do. And I will.”

I want to kiss him. I want to press my body against him.

I want to take him home. But instead, I smile and head for the door.

I know he’ll be watching me the entire way and, for once, I’m grateful I chose to wear heels and that I didn’t rip off my Spanx per my usual routine.

Here’s hoping the unyielding Lycra works its derriere-shaping magic and that my ass looks great in my snug pencil skirt.