None.

So he just slipped me right back into a bad mood.

Needless to say, I’m irritated and exhausted, and all I want to do is eat the steak and potatoes I picked up on the way home, drink a beer, and enjoy the Bobbies game. Harris is pitching tonight, and he’s been on fire lately.

I don’t want to deal with The Jock Report.

How I fucked up with Myla.

I quickly change into a pair of shorts and then pull out my phone and check my email once more. I was expecting an email from JP about a meeting with a merchandise vendor. My phone dings with incoming emails, and my inbox floods with over twenty.

The pounding of my head increases, becoming a constant throb at the forefront of my brain.

Power through. I search for an email from JP, and when I see it at the top, I open it. He hands me over an email for a guy he knows and tells me to contact him and tell him JP sent me over. Thankful that I have the Cane brothers to work with, I shoot an email over to James, the merchandise guy, with our general needs and my availability for a meeting. On a deep breath, I slip my phone into my pocket. Done for the day. How many times have I thought that only to be sidetracked by another call or several other emails? The truth behind running your own company.

Okay, beer, steak, and potatoes. My mouth waters at the thought of taking down one of my favorite steaks in Chicago, so I head downstairs and straight into the kitchen, where I find Myla standing with her back toward me in a thong bikini.

Fuck . . . me.

My headache has now turned into a full-on raging migraine.

Her bubbly ass is on full display, tan and perky. Her hair is down in waves, cascading over her shoulders, covering her bare back. Before she asked for a divorce, I would have slipped up behind her, tugged on the strings of her bikini bottoms, and pushed her over the counter so I could fuck her just the way we both like it. But now, I just have to deal with the fact that my wife with the finest fucking body I’ve ever seen is untouchable.

Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I walk toward where I left my take-out box only to stop mid-stride as Myla turns toward me, fork and knife in hand, half of my steak already gone.

My juicy, delicious, made-just-for-me steak with roasted seasoned potatoes and a side of horseradish sauce is being masticated by the one and only Myla Bisley.

“What . . .” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “What the hell are you doing?”

Control your temper, man.

Her eyes blink in confusion. “Eating the steak you brought me.”

“Brought . . . brought you?” I ask. “What makes you think I brought that home for you?”