Blending humour with lots of heart, Infidelity Rules is sure to leave audiences hooked with its refreshingly honest, sassy protagonist and swoon-worthy love interest.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Joelle Babula’s Infidelity Rules, which is out July 24th 2025.
QUINN DAVIS shatters the norm.
She’s successful in the traditionally male-dominated wine world. She’ll do anything for a hunk of swoon-worthy cheese. And she only dates married men, a practice designed to evade love and protect her battered heart. But even as a mistress, Quinn has rules. No meddling in happy marriages. No men with young kids. No falling in love. And absolutely, unequivocally, no gigantic panties on a date. She prefers her men the way she likes her food and wine – enticing, intoxicating and utterly delicious.
Enter MARCUS: Hollywood hot, absurdly charming, and determined to rock Quinn’s world. He encompasses everything Quinn wants in a fling – simplicity, passion and the mind-blowing infatuation that comes with a new crush. She lusts after him more than she does the most moan-worthy food and wine pairing. When she unexpectedly falls hard for this man with a complicated past, her carefully curated world unravels. Now she must confront her romantic demons, her mistress status, and learn what it means to sacrifice for another. Faced with the punishing choice of relinquishing a love she never dreamed possible or destroying a family, Quinn must decide what’s worth keeping and what she must let go. Wine and cheese? Never. A man she loves? Perhaps.
Chapter 2
Daily Special
Ricotta-stuffed meatballs in lemon broth with fried sage
Shaved baby artichoke salad
Bucatini with fresh sardines and wild fennel fronds
I’m pouring the last of the wine for my customers when I overhear a woman sighing with pleasure as she chases a forkful of chef’s pasta with a sip of a juicy Sicilian white, my suggested wine pairing.
Yes! A good match. I’m delighted I was able to provide her with this tiny bit of joy.
I love wine. I love food. I love the magic that happens when a great glass of wine pairs perfectly with a dish. It’s lusty and romantic, the only goal sheer and immediate pleasure. It’s akin to the ideal relationship, fleeting but swoon-worthy, each bringing out the very best in the other. The wine becomes a better version of itself and the flavors of the food become more vivid, livelier and, if you get a lucky match, the combination will make you moan. I swear it will.
This is what I live for. And it’s what I strive to do as a sommelier for my customers at Persimmon.
If only love matches were as easy as pairing food and wine. Stupendous failure would accurately describe all my past relationships, so I don’t date single men anymore. I have affairs with married men instead. But I never, ever play with men in happy marriages. Nor do I mess around with anyone that has children. Either would be like sabotaging the dream food and wine team — barbarian indeed.
I’m smiling at the woman’s utter food bliss and daydreaming about my next meal when I feel the heat of a man from across the dining room. Not just any man. My Mystery Man. The one whose mere presence zaps my appetite, flushes my cheeks and makes me want to giggle like a schoolgirl mooning over her first crush. Mentioning him to Dezi this afternoon must have brought me good juju because he doesn’t come around that often.
I hope he’s married.
Tonight, I find out, I think to myself as I watch him stroll toward the bar, all long legs, muscular shoulders and towering, hoop-star height.
I find myself wafting toward this mystery man almost imperceptibly, like a carb-starved dieter trailing after the luscious aroma of freshly baked bread. I bid a hasty goodnight to the last of my diners and pray I’m able to sneak behind him on my blade-thin stilettos to get a peek at his ring finger.
Come on wedding ring. Come on wedding ring. Come on wedding ring, my thoughts flash like a meditative chant in my head.
Ok. Here goes, I think, hoping my colossal, hold-you-in panties, are doing their job. I did not, per Dezi’s suggestion, wiggle out of them earlier.
Except now Chef is beckoning me from the kitchen. And he’s holding out a huge bowl of his steaming meatballs. Mmmmm. These are moan-worthy, make-your-eyes-roll-to-the-back-of-your-head, meatballs.
But I want to catch My Mystery Man before he disappears again, which is what usually happens. I need to find out if he’s married. But those meatballs …
Do I want the man or the meat? Man or meat? Gah! What to do?
Man it is.
I find him alone at the candlelit marble bar nursing what appears to be a whiskey, neat. Our bar is separate from the dining room and manages to be sexy and cozy at the same time. I’d be equally comfortable in a slinky cocktail dress or well-worn jeans and boots. I love the low-lit, old school crystal chandeliers, deep warm wood tones, candlelight en masse and the crazy-comfortable bar stools. If I didn’t already spend enough time at Persimmon, I would be a regular here.
I watch Mister Mysterious settle in and sip his drink. He fills out the barstool with his impressive frame, his shoulders dwarfing the deep green high-backed leather chairs. I need to stop staring and start moving. What I should do is be cool and keep my distance, but I can’t seem to help myself. I’m sucked into his orbit and am now almost close enough to sit in his lap. Or lick him.
Good grief Quinn. Get ahold of yourself.
The man swivels his barstool towards me and smiles.
“Join me?” he asks, rising and pulling out the stool next to him. “What can I get you?”
Oh my god, he’s even sexier up close. Dark, tousled hair. Orthodontic perfect teeth. And a smile that lights his eyes and carves a single jelly bean dimple into his otherwise chiseled, Hollywood face.
“I can’t stay long,” I lie, sitting down regardless and smiling at this fabulously tall wall of man in front of me. “I have plans.”
I attempt a furtive glance at his ring finger but no luck. Crap.
“I’ll take whatever time I can get,” he says playfully. “I’ve seen you here before. You are most definitely hard to miss.”
I cannot help but smile at that.
“I work here,” I say, inching closer to him. “I’m the sommelier.”
“Ahhhh,” he says, drumming his fingers on the bar and revealing — finally, but damnit — a naked ring finger. Sigh. It appears he’s single. Just my luck.
I deflate. I need to exit and fast, but I cannot seem to drag myself away. I’m too distracted by his muscular forearms peeking from his partially rolled-up sleeves.
“Clearly that’s where I’ve gone wrong,” he says in this hypnotic, radio news voice. “I’m more of a whiskey or beer guy. Something tells me I may have to make an exception here soon.”
“Well, perhaps I’m biased, but you’re definitely missing out,” I say, crossing my bare legs and turning ever so slightly toward him. “I bet I could find a wine you would enjoy.”
Shit, I say to myself. What are you doing? Naked hand! Naked hand! You’ve been down this road before. No more single men. Walk away.
“Oh yeah? I’ll take that bet. But I’m pretty sure I’d enjoy anything you poured for me,” he says, taking a sip of his drink and slowly turning my bar stool with his foot so that I’m facing him directly.
My brain tells me to run, but my body tells me otherwise. I want to touch his hair. Squeeze his bicep. Stroke, well, just about anything on this man. I briefly entertain the thought of attempting a fling, but quickly extinguish it. It won’t work, it never does. I’ve tried the no-strings-attached dating without success. Men are either looking for a one-night-stand or for a girlfriend to play house, there’s rarely any middle ground. I want the romance, the seduction and the all-consuming, mind-blowing infatuation that comes with a new crush. With married men, that’s exactly what I get—all sizzle with no chance of passion fading into the great big yawn of girlfriend or wifely duties. I get to be pursued. And it’s perfect.
No Single men, Quinn. Walk away. Now.
But I can’t. I’m acutely aware of his fingertips dangling over the bar and gently grazing my bare leg. My entire body has been condensed to this one tiny spot just above my knee. I swear the electricity generated is zapping my IQ points.
