Sharon stood in the living room, arms crossed tightly over her chest, trembling—not with fear but with barely-contained rage. The door had barely finished swinging closed behind Claire when Andrew stepped forward, his expression conflicted, his hands raised in an almost defensive posture. He had seen the look in Sharon's eyes. He knew what it meant. And more importantly, he knew what she thought she had seen.
"Sharon," he began, his voice soft but urgent, "It's not what you think."
But before he could say more, Sharon's voice cracked through the air like a whip. "Don't you dare say that to me!" she shouted, her hands now clenched into fists. Her chest heaved as the anger burned bright in her eyes. "How can you tell me it's not what I think when I literally saw Claire all over you?"
