The Sleeper's Wrath and His Wife's Strike novel Chapter 111

Yves ignored the question. “Find out where Lindsay’s having dinner tonight.”

“So, once we know the place, are we just going to show up and have dinner there too?” Cheryl teased, grinning.

“If it weren’t for the mess you made, would we even be fighting right now?” Yves snapped, his voice cold.

Cheryl rolled her eyes. “Hey, I didn’t expect things to spiral out of control like this! It’s not like I thought Alexia would show up at our door, either.”

“Cut the excuses. Just tell me when you find out.” Yves didn’t give her a chance to argue further—he hung up without another word.

…

That evening, at a bistro on the south side of town.

Lindsay arrived early, arms full with a carefully wrapped gift, and settled in to wait.

Over in the farthest corner, a pair of diners kept their eyes fixed on Lindsay.

“Yves, whoever Lindsay’s meeting tonight must be pretty important—she even brought a gift.” Cheryl squinted, trying to make out what it was from a distance.

Yves' expression was icy, his narrowed eyes studying the scene. The gift was a box of cigars, which meant Lindsay’s dinner companion was almost certainly a man.

“Look, here he comes,” Cheryl whispered.

Yves glanced over just as a tall, striking man in his early thirties approached Lindsay’s table—confident, handsome, the sort who drew attention.

“Not bad-looking at all,” Cheryl said, nodding in approval.

She barely finished the sentence before Yves shot her a glare that could freeze water.

Cheryl immediately shut her mouth, smacked herself lightly on the lips, and forced a sheepish smile. “Forget I said that. He’s nothing compared to you.”

“Oh, so polite? In that case, maybe I should take them back.” Lindsay reached for the gift, but Fitch hugged it to his chest, protesting, “Hey now, who gives a gift and then takes it back?”

From Yves' vantage point, the whole exchange looked suspiciously flirtatious. His grip tightened on his wine glass—so much so that it shattered in his hand, drawing blood.

Cheryl gasped and quickly grabbed a napkin, wrapping it around Yves' bleeding palm. She glared at him, exasperated. “There you go again! Can’t you control yourself? It’s just two friends having dinner!”

“Friends?” Yves' glare was icy, his tone even colder.

Cheryl rolled her eyes again. “Obviously! If Lindsay was sneaking around with him, would she be having dinner out in the open? Wouldn’t she have picked a hotel and, you know, handled grown-up business?”

Yves seemed to take that in, his face still stormy but silent.

Grumbling, Cheryl bandaged his hand as best she could. “There’s probably still glass in there. This is just to stop the bleeding—you need a doctor to get the rest of it out later, understand?”