Passion by the Book. Pamela Yaye

when he pecked her cheek and told her to get some rest, Simone knew her husband had no intention of returning anytime soon. Rolling onto her side, so he wouldn’t see the pained expression on her face, she pulled the blanket up to her chin and sighed inwardly.

      “Sleep well,” he said, switching off the bedside lamp. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

      Simone watched him leave, watched helplessly as he took her confidence and self-esteem with him. The room was dark, the night calm, and the scent of her husband’s aftershave swirled in the air. Simone willed herself to relax, to go to bed, but her restless mind chased sleep away.

      Lying there, she studied the numbers on the digital clock, watched as the seconds slipped into minutes. Simone felt alone, unloved, like a child whose parents forgot to pick her up from school. Only she wasn’t a kid. She was a twenty-nine-year-old woman whose husband would rather work than make love to her. His rejection stung, burned like antiseptic doused on a bloody wound.

      Resting her hands on her stomach, she blinked back the tears that filled her eyes. Having twins had taken a toll on her body, and it was times like this Simone wondered if Marcus was starting to lose interest in her sexually. She didn’t have the tight, shapely figure she’d had when they first met, and nursing her sons had all but ruined her boobs. If not for her fear of going under the knife, she would have had a breast lift years ago.

      Simone stared up at the ceiling, wondering, thinking, turning questions over in her mind. What happened to the sweet, sensitive guy who used to think the world of me? she thought sadly. Marcus had been emotionally AWOL for months, and whenever they talked, she could tell his thoughts were a million miles away. He complained that she hassled him too much, said that she was unappreciative of what he did for their family. Could it be true? Had her incessant nagging killed their romance? For months she’d been telling herself that he was just stressed about work, but deep down Simone knew it was something else.

      Panting, her head spinning, her heart racing, she bolted upright. Or maybe it isn’t something else, she thought, swallowing the lump of fear in her throat, but someone else?

      Simone shook her head, booted the thought from her mind. Now she was just being silly. Marcus wasn’t the cheating type. He was a workaholic, but at least he was a loyal one. Another thought struck, this one more terrifying than the last. The truth was staring her in the face, flashing like a fifty-foot neon billboard: Marcus wasn’t in love with her. That’s why he was working around the clock and why he was in his office now instead of in their marital bed.

      Sweat drenched her skin, soaked the plush, thousand-thread-count sheets. Winded, as if she’d been kicked in the stomach, Simone struggled to breathe. As she sat there, shaking, listening to the wind whistling through the trees, the same question ran over and over again in her mind.

      Can my marriage be saved or is it too late?

      Chapter 3

      “Ma’am, would you like another dirty martini?”

      Ma’am? Simone stared openmouthed at the dark-haired waiter. But I’m only twenty-nine! Deciding he was just being polite and not trying to insult her, she nodded and rested her empty cocktail glass on his tray. “And if it’s not too much trouble, could you bring us some more of your garlic cheese biscuits? They’re so good I could eat the whole basket myself.”

      “You did!” Angela Kelly quipped, pointing a finger at her. “I only had one!”

      They laughed.

      “I can’t believe how busy it is in here.” Simone settled against the oriental-style cushions lined up along the booth. “It’s a good thing you made reservations or we’d be stuck in the waiting area like everyone else.”

      “That wouldn’t be so bad. That sexy pitcher who plays for the White Sox just swaggered in, and, girl, he’s even more gorgeous in person!”

      “Now I remember why you like it here so much. You can stuff your face and get your daily celebrity fix all at the same time!”

      Simone laughed, but she enjoyed having lunch at the Skyline Grill just as much as Angela did, and not just because it was located on a bustling, tree-lined street overrun with cafés, hotels and upscale boutiques. The crowd was chic, the service prompt and the atmosphere lively. Glass vases overflowing with marigolds brightened the tables, framed photographs of the rich and famous adorned the walls and pop music drifted in from the adjacent lounge. From her seat, Simone could see Jayden and Jordan darting around the playroom, and she smiled sympathetically at the waitress keeping watch over the roomful of rambunctious toddlers.

      “I need a massage in the worst way,” Angela said, rubbing her neck. “I interviewed a Saudi diplomat this morning, and every time I asked about the bribery charges against him, he cursed me in Arabic. I’m telling you, I earned my paycheck today and then some!”

      Fair-skinned, with hazel eyes and an abundance of naturally curly hair, Angela looked the part of a confident, tenacious news reporter in her green military-style blazer, white blouse and slim pants. Her best friend complained constantly about her long work hours, but she loved interviewing prominent people—even the obnoxious ones—and was thrilled that she’d been hired to work at the number-one TV station in Chicago.

      “Let’s go to Destination Wellness tomorrow,” she suggested, raising her cocktail glass to her glossy lips. “I’m telling you. That Euphoria Suite is calling my name!”

      “I can’t. I’m thinking of having some work done, and I have a consultation with—”

      “You’re doing more home renovations? But you just finished your deck.”

      “I’m not meeting a building contractor, silly. I’m meeting a plastic surgeon.”

      Angela’s eyes were wide, glazed over with disbelief.

      “I want to get a breast lift,” Simone announced, pinching two fingers together. “And maybe a smidge of liposuction. I did some research on it this morning, and I can have both procedures done at the same time. Isn’t that great?”

      “Simone, you don’t need a breast lift.”

      “Yes, I do! After nursing the boys my boobs became sort of, I don’t know, squishy, and I even went down a cup size.” Moving aside her salad bowl, she leaned forward and stuck out her chest. “Go on—touch them. See for yourself.”

      Angela looked like her chin was about to hit the table. “I’m not going to touch your boobs,” she hissed, glancing around the dining room to see if anyone rich and fabulous was watching. “This is a classy restaurant, not some sleazy back-alley bar in the hood.”

      “Who cares? We’ve been friends forever, and besides, no one’s paying us any mind. Go on, give them a good, hard squeeze.”

      “Forget it, Simone. I’m not going to feel you up in front of all these nice people.”

      “Some friend you are.”

      “You’re insane for even considering having plastic surgery,” Angela replied. “You’re gorgeous. Stunning. Sexier than a video chick in black pleather booty shorts.”

      “I’m telling you my boobs just aren’t as perky as they used to be.”

      “So what if they aren’t? It’s not the end of the world.”

      Simone gave her the evil eye. “We’ll see if you’re still singing that tune after you’ve had a couple kids and your body doesn’t snap back like it’s supposed to.”

      “You’re starting to sound like that delusional Miami socialite I interviewed last year! What are you going to do next? Take some fat from your butt and inject it into your face to reverse the aging process?”

      Angela’s cheeky, off-the-cuff retort made Simone giggle, and when her friend threatened to send back the dirty martini the waiter brought, she laughed even harder. Simone lived for “Girls’