So my thoroughly wasted wife fixed me with a cold, contemptuous stare. "I know exactly who you are, Nathaniel Gilbert. You want to hear it again? Fine. You're smaller than Morris. You can't satisfy me. And you're always too busy making money to spend any time with me. That's all you know how to do—work."
I laughed. Not because it was funny.
If I sat around the house doing nothing, what would we eat? What would keep us afloat—sweet-talking women for a living?
Before I could say a word, Valerie staggered back across the room and planted herself on Morris's lap again.
Morris, already in full panic mode, grabbed her shoulders. "Valerie, get up! Your husband is Nate!"
She didn't get up. Instead, she lunged forward and bit down on Morris's lip. Then, with a wicked grin, she reached down and grabbed the front of his pants. "See? I told you Nathaniel's got nothing on you. Yours is so much better."
Gasps rippled through the room. Every single person held their breath.
My face burned as if someone had slapped me in front of everyone. The humiliation was absolute. I was a walking joke.