Always Room for Cupcakes (Cupcakes 1)

My heart started to bleed at his words, so I hardened it, crossing my arms over my chest and asking, “Really? That’s it? That’s all you’ve been wanting to tell me? All the texts and phone calls, telling the kids you needed to talk…”

“I never should have said anything to the kids,” he said, his chiseled jaw clenching. “But I am sorry, babe.”

“No, you don’t get to call me babe anymore. If it was such a mistake, how did it happen? We were married for twelve damn years … How could you accidently end up with your face in Slutty Shirley Finkle’s snatch behind the fucking Starbucks? That shit doesn’t just happen. You’re saying that was your only time with her?’

The Douche stepped closer, his five-foot-nine frame only slightly taller than my five-foot-seven one, so we could almost see eye to eye.

“We weren’t the same,” he said, and I knew he was talking about us. About the last couple years of our marriage. “You were busy with the kids and your events at school, and I was working all the time. It seemed like when I was home, you didn’t have time for me, so I wasn’t in a hurry to be home. We weren’t talking, we weren’t having sex, shit, we barely even touched each other…”

I held up a hand to stop him, teetering on the brink of rage or tears, I wasn’t sure which, maybe both. I faced the floor, trying to keep my mask in place.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think over the past ten months, and I can accept that the issues in our marriage were because of both of us. We both knew things weren’t great, but we didn’t talk about it, and we didn’t work out how to fix it. I’ll give you that.”

Then I looked into his handsome face, and at his flinch, I knew the pain was apparent on mine. “What I can’t forgive is your absolute lack of respect for me. Not for the mother of your kids, or the woman who kept your home, for me … your wife. If you were tempted, you should have talked to me, or at the very least, told me you wanted to separate, get a divorce. Maybe that would have shaken us up enough to get some help, but to cheat … That shows that not only did you not respect me, but you didn’t love me either. Because if you did, you wouldn’t hurt and humiliate me that way. In a fucking parking lot.”

I wasn’t yelling; I was too raw, the feelings too close to the surface. This was why I’d been avoiding him since the divorce. I didn’t want his excuses, because I knew they wouldn’t be good enough, and I’d only feel more pain.

“Of course I loved you, and shit, Lila, I respected you and what you did for our family. It wasn’t about you, it was about me not feeling like I meant anything to you. I went to the bar to meet the guys that night, but Joel called and canceled at the last minute, so I sat down and had a drink. I wasn’t there looking for anything, I was just having as drink before coming home, then I felt a hand on my shoulder and Shirley Finkle sat down next to me. It was obvious she’d been drinking, and I told you how she’d always had a crush on me in high school … She was looking at me in a way that no one had looked at me in years. Like she wanted me. Me. She started saying stuff in my ears, telling me what she wanted to do to me and what she wanted me to do to her…”

“I don’t need to hear the details,” I said, my voice practically a whisper, as a pain I thought I’d beaten back bloomed within me.

“I don’t know how we ended up in the Starbucks parking lot, all I know is that what she said, and what she did, drove me out of my mind, and it felt good to be desired. I didn’t intend for anything to happen, but it did, and I’ve regretted it every second since.”

I turned my head, unable to look at him any longer, and noticed my perp grabbing her purse and waving to the other tellers. Shit, I needed to move, which was actually perfect, because I wanted to get as far away from here as possible.

I put my hands up and pushed roughly against The Douche’s chest, causing him to step back a few feet.

“Thanks,” I said nastily, pushing past him toward the door. “Thanks for proving I made the right decision when I got rid of your ass. You’re not the man I thought I’d married, you’re just a weak shell of that man.”

I gave him one last glance, ignoring the flash of hurt, which was nothing compared to the gut-wrenching pain his words had inflicted on me, then walked out after my perp.

I hoped she was guilty, because I was itching to nail someone’s ass to the wall.

I was disappointed when I followed the young brunette into an upscale bistro on the other side of town. It was a happening lunch spot for local business people, a lot of whom were bank customers.

I figured she was actually stopping in for lunch, but decided I’d stick with her just in case.

I got a table outside and ordered a wrap. I could see the perp inside from my vantage point and get some food in me at the same time. Two birds, one stone.

At first I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. She seemed to know just about everyone in the bistro, probably a side effect of her job as a teller at the largest bank in town, and flitted from table to table as she waited for her order to be ready.

It was at the second table that I realized what she was doing. She threw her head back and laughed at something the older gentleman she was talking to had said, and while his eyes roamed down to her quivering cleavage, she slid his pinky ring right off of his hand.

I don’t know how he didn’t feel it, although in his defense, she had a really great rack.

I paid close attention as she hopped around the dining room, taking a watch, a wallet, another ring, and a pocket watch. When I saw her take a pretty diamond hair clip out of a woman’s hair, I had to admit, I was kind of impressed. I’d never seen slight of hand up close like that before, and it took a special finesse to do what she did without getting caught.

Except, of cour

se, she was getting caught … on camera, by me … but still, it was impressive.

The perp sat and ate her meal as if she hadn’t just robbed the entire clientele of the bistro, then said her goodbyes after paying her bill and left, just as carefree as when she entered.

I left money to cover my tab on the table and followed her a couple blocks down and a street over, to the local pawn shop.

I waited outside until I saw her walk up to the shop owner, talk for a minute, then follow him into the back room. Reaching my hand up to the top of the door, I opened it slowly, wrapping my hand around the bell before it could signal my entrance, then I eased inside.

Tiptoeing and keeping my breath even and as quiet as possible, I moved toward the back until I could hear their voices, then paused.