His parting shot hurt, mostly because it was true. She stared at the red T-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, the Blake Glassware lettering standing out in the dim light from the kitchen pendant lamp. Beneath his tough exterior, his wounds ran deep—deep enough to make him lash out should anyone tread on those scars.
I won’t believe a fucking word you say.
Anguish cracked across her rib cage. She’d turned into her mother, so bottled up with hurt she was willing to lie about who she was, what she was feeling, anything to avoid the truth. The consequences were costly. Mitch no longer believed her, and there was a good chance everyone at Blake Glassware would feel just as betrayed. At least, Veronica and Sarah would give her a chance to explain. Mitch never would. With a resolute turn toward the door, Jaye walked away.
Mitch scratched the whiskers growing on his jaw but felt no regret about turning into a wooly ogre. Since watching Jaye moved out three days ago, he couldn’t look at himself in the mirror without feeling sick to his stomach. One of these days, he’d have to man up and shave.
He stared out the restaurant’s window, trying to come up with one more excuse to return to the factory so he wouldn’t have to face his empty house again. Problem was, he’d spent every waking moment of the past seventy-two hours at work. There was nothing left to do. He was all caught up—caught up in a torment so intense, he couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t blink without feeling a sharp, slicing pain deep inside his brain.
Phil nudged him. “Dinner’s here.”
Mitch looked up, noticed the waitress standing beside him, and dragged his arm off the table.
Offering a smile, she slid a plate of food in front of him. “This’ll cure what ails ya.”
If only it would. With a murmur of thanks, he sawed off a bite of meatloaf and forced the chunk into his mouth. The food tasted like ash. Appropriate, considering he’d incinerated his personal life with a blaze of anger.
Again.
“Do you want to come to my place tonight to watch Thursday night football?” Phil ventured, salting his hamburger.
“No, thanks. I need to try to sleep.” Try being the operative word.
Freddie pointed an onion ring his way. “The game should be good. Those Bears want to devour our Bills.”
Mitch let the comment pass. He wasn’t in the mood to talk about football or anything else. He only let Freddie and Phil drag him out to dinner because he couldn’t stomach their sympathetic looks any longer.
Phil placed the salt on the table. “Would it help if I let you punch me?”
Mitch frowned at his friend. “What?”
“You’ve hardly said ten words over the past few days.” Phil pointed to his chin. “Take your misery out on me.”
A chill tiptoed down his spine. Was his agony so obvious? If he didn’t want everyone at the factory to feel sorry for him, he’d have to do a better job pretending everything was fine. “I doubt punching you would help, but thanks anyway.”
Freddie took a swig of iced tea. “At the risk of sounding like a shrink, d’ya want to talk about what’s bothering you?”
“No.” Mitch stabbed his fork into the mashed potatoes. The handle stood up like a flagpole jammed into a snowy mountaintop. “What good does talking do, anyway?”
“Supposed to make you feel better.”
“Lately, my conversations make me feel like crap.” Folding his arms along the edge of the table, Mitch frowned at Phil. “Have you ever won an argument with a woman?”
Phil stopped chewing. “Huh?”
“When you and Patti fight, do you ever win?”
“Hell, no.” Phil took another bite of hamburger and held up his index finger. “Unless you count the time when I was right about the dishwasher leaking, but Patti had a sinus infection so she couldn’t hear the water drip. Put her at a mild disadvantage.”
Mitch glowered at Freddie. “What about you?”
“Well, I’ve spent the past year without a girlfriend because I tried to convince my ex to leave on the TV while we had sex.” He shrugged. “In my defense, I didn’t want to miss a minute of the Superbowl. I mean, who in their right mind wants to have sex then?”
Phil shook his head with a grin. “Are you telling me you couldn’t get the job done during halftime?”
“And miss the halftime show? No way.” Freddie frowned at Mitch. “Did you lose a fight with Jaye?”
“No. I wasn’t wrong.” Mitch stared at his plate and couldn’t muster any hunger.
“At least, she’s living with you.” Freddie shrugged. “Patch things up.”
“She moved out.” Mitch rubbed his hand across his jaw so hard, it was a wonder his whiskers didn’t fall off.
“Talk to her at the factory,” Phil suggested.
“I’d rather not get into a screaming match at work.”
Freddie’s gaze darted to something near the front of the restaurant. “You can talk to her now. She just came in with Veronica and Sarah.”
Mitch spotted the women walking to the far side of the room. Jaye was wearing the gray skirt she’d worn before, the one that made her look like a hot librarian. He wasn’t the only one who noticed. A number of men glanced up from their meals to admire the lean legs showing beneath the hem of her skirt and the shy way she brushed her chestnut bangs out of her breathtaking eyes.
His gaze landed on her brown tweed blazer and bitter dread crawled over him. Did she despise him so much she’d risk pneumonia rather than touch the winter coat he’d bought her?
“So, you haven’t been working late this week because the factory is trouble.” Phil tapped his index finger on the table and nodded toward Jaye. “You’ve been working like a dog because she moved out.”
“Yeah. My house feels like a crypt.” Mitch felt a physical pain knife through his chest when Jaye smiled at Sarah. She looked
