Dear Ex Wife Please take me back novel Chapter 93

ATHENA

One month later….

“You know,” Sloane says, tossing a bag of tortilla chips into the cart with flair, “I think my uterus has grown cobwebs. Literal. Freaking. Cobwebs.”

I snort so loud a nearby toddler swivels to look at me. “Sloane!”

“What?!” she grins shamelessly, pushing her sunglasses up on her head as she saunters past the cereal aisle. “It’s been so long, Athena. I’m talking ghost-town, tumbleweed-rolling, 'CLOSED FOR BUSINESS' kind of long.”

Isabelle snorts behind me. “Okay, now I’m picturing cobwebs… down there. Thanks for that.”

Sloane shrugs, utterly unfazed. “I’m just saying, if a hot guy so much as smiles at me, I might combust. Or cry. I’m not sure which yet.”

I laugh, catching my breath as I toss a bag of apples into the cart. “This is what I missed. You two and your incredibly vivid metaphors.”

“Well,” Isabelle says dryly, “that’s what happens when your love life is non-existent.”

I laugh at that because it's true. Well… at least for me.

Isabelle is too busy with her career and has zero time to date. With how much she has achieved, I was shocked to learn she's only thirty-two. Which is the same age as Ale..

Nope.

I'm not going there.

“So, how are you fitting in working directly under that hottie? You should hook me up. He looks like a hot nerd and a total freak in bed.” Sloane says, making me gasp in horror!

“Sloane!”

“What? Just answer the question, girl.” She rolls her eyes like she didn't just say the most horrific thing right here in public.

I groan, “ It’s only been a week, and he’s already rearranged my entire schedule. Twice.”

Sloane shoots me a sly look. “Oh no. He’s into rearranging things? He can rearrange-”

I don't let her finish as I move to the cheese section.

I love cheese so much. Honestly, I can eat cheese with anything. Those who are allergic are missing out big time. But because I'm a good person, I buy twice what I need so I can eat on their behalf.

Yep. I'm pretty generous, I know.

I grab a block of sharp cheddar and toss it in the cart with dramatic flair.

“Behold. Charity.”

Isabelle raises an eyebrow.

“That for the lactose-intolerant community?”

“Exactly,” I say, completely serious. “I suffer for them.”

Sloane snickers. “You’re a martyr, really. A saint.”

“I try.”

We turn down the next aisle, and just as I’m admiring the selection of brie, Sloane leans against the cart and sighs.

“But seriously, Quinn, though. He’s hot. Like, glasses-wearing, brooding, probably has a secret tattoo kind of hot.”