Page 25 of Infidelity Rules

Daily Special

Beef tenderloin with rhubarb and red wine

Crushed baby potatoes with rosemary and horseradish cream

Charred broccoli rabe with lemon and pine-nuts

I dressed for work this evening fully channeling Dezi. Tight sheath dress, cinched in belted waist and high, high heels.

Ugh. Now I wished I hadn’t. I will have to hold in my stomach all night.

I don’t know why I do this to myself. I buy all these tight-fitting dresses and heels and think to myself, yes, I will wear this!

Never mind that in my closet live seven identical and equally uncomfortable items .

But THIS dress is different. THESE ridiculous shoes are somehow magically comfortable.

Yeah right. It never seems to work that way.

I don’t even know if I can bend over to pick up wine bottles in this dress. I probably should have tested that out.

Sigh. I wish I were impervious to the desire to dress sexy for my man. But alas, I am not.

I’m wearing this get-up tonight because of Marcus. Who else?

There’s a chance. A teeny, tiny chance I might get to see Marcus tonight. Although it’s unlikely, he might stop by if his flight gets in early. Before he heads home to The Wife.

The last time I saw him was briefly at Club Central with Dezi and Elliot, so I’m eager to get my hands on him again, so to speak. Even for just a few minutes.

Half-way through my shift we have almost sold out of tonight’s tenderloin special and my recommended Alexander Valley pinot noir, so I’m in the wine cellar, looking for bottles within reach. Because no, as it turns out, I cannot bend down in this dress. Or twist, for that matter.

“WHAT IN GOD’S NAME ARE YOU DOING?” booms Chef, finding me in the cellar, awkwardly folding myself around the constraints of my stupid dress, trying to maneuver into a position to get at the wine.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” I snap back, starting to sweat with the effort.

“It LOOKS like you are doing some kind of new-fangled and preposterous exercise routine. In MY cellar. That’s the appearance you give, anyhow,” he fires right back.

I stand up, tugging down the hem of my dress as it had hiked up, nearly revealing my mammoth, hold-you-in panties.

“Sorry Chef,” I grumble. “We are almost out of the wine I’ve been recommending, so I’m getting a backup,” I say, holding up a bottle of cabernet franc.

“Ah. Excellent choice,” he says, peering at the label. “I’ve been to this winery myself.”

Chef helps me collect a case of the wine, asking me my thoughts about his rhubarb sauce.

“Are you kidding?” I say. “I love rhubarb, but who knew it belonged anywhere but pie? It’s delicious with the beef. You’re lucky I can barely breathe in this dress, otherwise I would have hoovered up more.”

Chef grins, apparently appeased and wanders back into his kitchen.

I survey my dining room and make my rounds, walking carefully on my stilt-like heels. The last thing I need is to take a tumble carrying wine and glasses.

“Wow, you are tall,” says one of my diners, looking up at me as I display the bottle of cab franc to the table. “Do you mind me asking how tall?”

Here it comes … “Do you play basketball?”

And. Wait for it … “It’s just so rare to see a woman this tall,” he says.

I smile. It’s always the same three.

“I’m just over six-feet barefoot,” I say, delicately kicking up a high-heeled clad foot.

“But probably closer to six-foot-four inches today with the shoes. And if by basketball, you mean flinging that big orange ball through a big orange hoop with big people chasing me all the while? Then no, I do not play and never have. Much to the chagrin of my high school basketball coach.”

The man laughs, nodding appreciatively. “I get it,” he says. “I coach boy’s basketball and I’m always looking for the tall kids. Well, you wear it well. It’s nice to see.”

“Thank you. Now, who wants to taste the wine?”

.....

It has been a busy evening and my feet are killing me.

Note to self, no more sky-high heels. At least not at work.

What a stupid choice. Especially since I know Marcus doesn’t care what I wear.

In fact, I’m pretty sure he’d rather I just be naked all the time.

But we are still so new and it’s still soooo good.

I want to dress up for him. I’m not about to start revealing my wild-haired, stretchy clothed, dingy underwear self.

Once I’m on that precipice, it’s time to start a new affair.

Time to start looking for my next married man.

I quickly check my phone, but nothing from Marcus.

That probably means he’s still in the air and likely will have to go straight home.

Sigh. I know I wanted a married man, but it’s times like these that I’m jealous of the wife.

His wife, in particular. She gets first dibs.

I’m trying to ignore her. And I’m trying to squash that nagging feeling in my gut that I’m getting too involved.

That my lust is evolving into something more.

Something I may not be able to easily shimmy out of.

Damn that Marcus. Damn that wild rumpus.

I glance around the dining room and see that most of my tables are wrapping up, so I head to the bar to say hello to Julian. I haven’t seen him all night.

I walk into the bar and Julian looks up, giving me a long, slow whistle. “Well don’t you look great tonight,” he says, grinning. “Dressing up for somebody special, are we?”

“Thanks,” I say, feeling a bit sheepish. “I was hoping, but I don’t think he’s going to make it.”

“Ah. Too busy flying planes?”

“Something like that,” I say, sighing and eyeing Julian’s tray of cocktail condiments. Glistening, fat cherries. Pickled onions. Crisp, tart tomatillos. Candied bits of citrus peel. And green olives, oozing with creamy blue cheese.

“Don’t even think about getting your hands in there,” he says, handing me a napkin with a couple of olives and a tomatillo. “Just point if you want anything else.”

“These tiny morsels are all I can manage in this dress,” I say, looking down at my pinched waist. “That’s it,” I say, unleashing the tight, unforgiving belt and dropping it directly into the trash can behind the bar.

“Ahhhhhhhhh. So much better,” I say, as my stomach expands to its natural resting state.

It’s mostly flat (thank you mom for the flat abs gene), but certainly not concave.

Julian laughs and shakes his head. “Women. I will never understand you.”

“Speaking of women,” I say, tapping my fingers on the bar.

Julian looks at me, one eyebrow raised. “Yes?”

“Oh, come on. Are you dating anyone? Do you have a girlfriend you’re hiding? Are you even looking?”

“No. No. And yes. Always looking.”

“Okay then. When was your last date? Last girlfriend? Longest relationship?”

“So many questions,” he says, handing me another napkin with a stick of olives and onions.

“Well, you never give me any answers,” I say, my mouth full of cocktail onions. “So I ask them all at once.”

“One question,” he says. “Shoot.”

“What’s your type?”

“Clever,” he says. “That’s several questions in one.”

“Well?” I persist.

“Tall. Redhead. Athletic. Throws bits of her clothes in the trash,” he says with a wink.

“Funny guy,” I say, swatting him in the arm and shaking my head.

“Quinn,” Julian says, nodding over my shoulder and towards the entrance of the bar. “I think you have a visitor.”

Marcus, I think, my heart starting to thump. Although, oddly, no wild rumpus.

“NOT your pilot,” Julian whispers in my ear.

I turn around and see a familiar petite brunette, her round, navy blue eyes piercing mine. No wonder there was no wild rumpus.

Shit.

Zack’s wife is marching towards me. Her eyes tracking my face with military precision.

Oh boy. This is not going to go well.

Maybe I could run.

If I wasn’t wearing these ridiculous shoes. And this tight-ass dress.

“She’s coming right for you. And she looks pretty pissed off,” says Julian. “Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper back. “It’s complicated. It could get weird.”

“Let me know if I can help.”

“Well, well, well,” says Zack’s wife, pulling up a barstool and plopping down next to me. “If it isn’t my favorite home-wrecking twit.”

I cringe. Oh boy. I’m certain Julian heard that.

“Can we please take this outside? Or meet after my shift,” I whisper urgently. “This isn’t the appropriate place.”

“Oh really?” she says, her voice rising above a whisper. “NOW you’re worried about being appropriate? But not when, say, you were screwing my husband?”

“Jesus,” I say, glancing at Julian, who quickly looks away. “Look, I have already apologized. I’m not seeing Zack anymore. And I never slept with him.”

Zack’s wife looks at me with those huge, round, navy-blue eyes.

I hold her gaze and repeat myself, slowly. “I. Never. Slept. With. Zack. I promise you that.”

She blows out a sigh and bows her head. She sure comes out feisty, but thankfully, that seems to quickly fizzle. “I just cannot get those photos of the two of you out of my head,” she whispers.

I have nothing to say to this. It’s terrible. And I cannot even imagine.

“I’m sorry,” I say lamely. “But I don’t know what I can do to help you.”

“I want my lessons, like we talked about,” she says, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin.

I can see Julian out of the corner of my eye, his eyebrows shoot up so far they almost disappear into his hairline.

I shake my head. “I’m not going to give you lessons. It’s absurd. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“You can start by telling me why you zoned in on my husband. And exactly what you did to make him put his hands all over you. In a restaurant. While eating waffles.”

I slowly close and then open my eyes, hoping she might just go away.

Nope. She’s still there.

“That would be an excellent place to start,” she says, standing up. “I’m not going to ask again nicely. I’ll be in touch.”

.....

“Do I even want to know what that was all about?” asks Julian, looking at me seriously.

The playful twinkle in his eyes from just a few minutes ago is gone. He almost looks like a stranger.

I sigh and put my head in my hands. “I have found myself in a bit of a pickle. And I don’t know what to do.”

Julian is quiet, calmly polishing glassware.

“I know it’s my fault, but …” I trail off, not sure what to say. Not exactly sure what Julian even overheard.

“But what?” Julian asks. “Seems pretty simple to me. Am I correct in that, for whatever reason, you screwed with another woman’s marriage?”

Geez. Once again, I feel like a giant ass.

“Yes,” I whisper, unable to look Julian in the eye.

He sighs. “Oh Q. Shit happens. It’s not like you knew he was married and did it on purpose.”

My insides turn to ice. I literally feel as if a tiny, invisible creature is coloring my veins with an icicle, carefully tracing all the branches and vessels.

I can’t breathe. I am shivering.

“Hey,” says Julian softly. “It’s okay Q. It sounds as if she’s giving you the chance to fix things,” he says, rubbing my shoulders. “Seems like a gift if you ask me.”