Page 258 of The Professor's Wife

He flagged down a young server who was more than willing to help. A minute later, we were seated in a booth, and I didn’t know how the fuck I got here.

“Tell me about yourself,” Oliver said, his demeanor friendly and open. “I want to know about the life of a busker.”

“It’s not all that exciting.”

He grinned. “Bullshit. Every day is spontaneous, isn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“If you’re here, you’re traveling, so you’re not doing it in one place.”

“Yeah.”

I kept my answers light and vague, but he didn’t stop trying to drag more words out of me.

His eyes searched mine. “What’s not exciting about a busker who lives his life traveling and singing and possibly meeting some happy faces along the way?”

“When you put it like that, I guess it’s not bad. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What are you doing so far out of town?”

“I’m swinging by my cabin. Getting it ready for my wife.”

A muscle twitched at the corner of my mouth before I could stop it. The idea of him preparing some idyllic getaway for her made something sour twist in my chest. Was that her life with him—weekends at a polished cabin, everything perfectly selected and serene? Did she leave men like me behind likefucking smudges on a palette that she could rinse away before she returned to him?

“What’s it like?” I asked. “Your cabin.”

He smiled, pleased with himself. “Private. Peaceful. Perfect for her.”

It took everything to sit stoically. I nodded, but my mouth was dry. I couldn’t look at him. It wasn’t guilt—it should have been guilt inside me. I should have felt ashamed. The man was preparing his fucking retreat for her, and she was going behind his back in the most brutal way.

It’s just you,she’d said.

But what if that was a lie designed to manipulate me into feeling special? At the same time, I remembered the dark look in Oliver’s eyes when he’d taken her face in his hands and inspected her lips as if they weren’t good enough. But maybe I got that wrong too.

As the minutes passed in roaring silence, I listened to these thoughts, still waiting for that guilt, but no, there was none. My instincts roared that I was damn pleased with myself for having her. I could treat her better. I didn’t have deeper pockets than he did, but I didn’t need to.

“Do you have someone back home?” he asked next, breaking the silence.

I shook my head. “No.”

He grinned. “A bachelor. How’s the selection these days?”

“Selection?”

“Of partners.”

I began to shake my head again. “I don’t know…”

“Bullshit, you don’t. Come on, look at you. You sing and busk, and you’re built like a quarterback. Don’t be humble, Tristan. We know you’re not humble. They must throw themselves at you, and how easy it must be to take a girl to bed and then leave her the next day.”

“I don’t busk for easy sex.”

“You want her to see you work for it?”

Irritation spiked through me. “How about we don’t talk about my sex life?”