AYLA
Strawberries.
Where had I perceived that scent again? I thought.
The bed.
If I ever liked strawberries, that likeness was instantly thrown out the window and replaced by distaste and disgust.
I'd known there were other women in the picture—from the Casino, stripclub's, horse racing games we'd attended; I'd seen the way they threw themselves at him and how he enjoyed their attention.
But I hadn't thought I'd have to stand face to face with any of them.
And certainly not with one looking like a model.
I felt a weird feeling tighten my throat.
Jealousy.
Whoever this woman was, she was undoubtedly the one wh.. .
.d⁰o'd been in his bed the last time.
I didn't like her. Maybe I even hated her a little.
My gaze swept downward. So did hers.
Her hair looked like summertime and wheat—a perfect mix. Long blonde lashes framed a perfectly made-up face, full lips painted red, and perfect white teeth.
He liked this thing?
