The Rake (Boston Belles #4) by L.J. Shen

He’d been with her until I was twenty-one.

This wasn’t a fling. It was an affair. Of course it was. He wouldn’t have brought his fling over to his house.

“Why?” I asked.

I wanted to know what was missing in his life. Mom was gorgeous, loyal, and sweet. Persy and I were good kids. Sure, we had stuff, everyone had stuff—money issues, Mom losing her sister to cancer, those sorts of things. Life things. Things we went through together.

“Why did I cheat on your mother?” He looked perplexed.

“Yes. I want to know.”

Neither of us made a move to clean up the mess on the floor.

He rubbed the back of his neck, pushing off the counter and starting to pace back and forth. I followed him with my gaze.

“Look, it wasn’t so easy back then, okay? From the moment your momma quit her job to take care of you two and your Aunt Tilda, may she rest in peace, I wasn’t just the breadwinner—I was the sole provider of the family. And there were medical bills and a fridge to fill, mouths to feed, insurance and a mortgage to pay. Persy had ballet classes, and you had track. Things added up, and I just …” He stopped, flinging his arms helplessly in the air. “I was sinking. Going under. Deep. Your mother didn’t want to touch me. I felt too guilty to even ask. She was watching her sister disappear, little by little. I felt like an employee of the household more than the man of it. And then came Sophia.”

“I’m guessing there’s a pun there,” I muttered sarcastically.

He ignored my barb. “Sophia and I worked in the same office building. At first we took lunches together. It was innocent.”

“I’m sure.” I smiled, surprised to find out I was as bitter as I’d be if it’d happened to me. If it were Devon.

Devon is not yours. Devon is getting married to another woman, probably in the next few months. Apologize profusely and tear the check into tiny pieces or move on with your life.

“She was going through a messy divorce,” Dad explained.

“Cordial divorces are hard to come by,” I quipped. “And the fact you did it in Mom’s bed. Ballsy. There’s a pun there too, by the way.”

“Emmabelle,” he chided softly. “Believe it or not, I did it there because a part of me wanted to get caught. Give me a chance to speak.”

Begrudgingly, I pursed my lips, allowing him to go on.

“I was there for her, and she was there for me. She was a mess. I was falling apart. Throughout all this, your mother and I had drifted apart, until I could no longer remember what it felt like to be her partner, her lover. But it was complicated. I still loved your mom. I wanted to believe I’d get her back, eventually. Our love was just on hold.”

What in the ever-loving fuck was this man talking about? Love wasn’t something you could put a pin in and get back to later. It wasn’t a goddamn follow-up email you could schedule in advance.

“The timeline suggests otherwise.” I attempted a sardonic smile. Auntie Tilda died in my early teens. Dad broke up with Sophia when I was twenty.

“Life has a way of setting the pace,” he admitted. Bending to pick up the large pieces of glass from the floor, he looked at them like he wanted to stab his own neck.

“I wish I were so forgiving to myself about my actions,” I mumbled.

“I’m not forgiving to myself. I’ve hated myself for a long time. I tried to break up with Sophia numerous times after your aunt passed away. And sometimes, I even succeeded. But she always came back. And sometimes I let her in, whenever your mother and I had issues.”

“You’re a sack of shit.” The words coming out of my mouth stunned me. Not because they didn’t make guest appearances every now and then (profanity and I were close friends) but because they’d never been directed at a family member before. Family was something sacred. Until now.

“I was,” he agreed. “But finally, nine years into the affair, I managed to escape her. I quit my job. I changed the locks on our house. I told her if she got anywhere near your mother or tried to tell her, I’d make her life miserable.”

“Nice.”

He threw the glass into the trash can under the sink, poking at the rest of it with his boot.

“If you knew all this time, why didn’t you tell your mother?”

“What makes you think I didn’t?”

“She’d have killed me.” Dad popped his upper body into the pantry and returned with a mop to clean up the beer, his eyes clinging to my face the entire time. “Then left me. Not in that order.”

I let out a huff. “As if.”

“What do you mean?” He started mopping.

“Mom never would have left you. That’s why I didn’t tell her,” I bit out, my voice carried by emotions like they were the wind. Gaining altitude, becoming a storm.

The reason I didn’t tell her all these years wasn’t altruistic. It’s not because I wanted to protect her.

I was worried she’d stay, and I wouldn’t be able to look her in the eye.

That I would be so deeply disappointed in her, so upset with her decision, it would affect our relationship.

By not trusting her decision, I robbed her of the ability to make one.

“Yes, she would.” Dad stopped mopping, pressing his forehead to the tip of the mop stick. He closed his eyes. “She would have walked away. She was tempted to do it regardless of my infidelity.”