REBECCA
Reiner was still pissed at Tamara when we finally went to bed that night: when I peeked at his iPad, I noticed he was reading her latest article, the infamous one the reporter had asked me about that afternoon, and I sighed.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I asked.
“Getting ready to tear her a new one,” he hissed, his eyes still glued to the screen.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him in for a distracting kiss. “Do you really think there’s nothing better you could do right here, right now, with me and with no kids in sight?” I asked playfully, snaking my hand down his chest. “Do you really want to read what your ex has to say about me?”
“I don’t want to, but I need to”.
“Babe, you’re more upset about this than I am – and I’m being the one being insulted,” I
