She snorts. “Right. Must be one hell of a roast.”
“Mhmm.” Her tone says she doesn’t buy it, but she lets it go, shifting the conversation to the baby shower. We sit and make plans for an hour.
Later that night in my office, sketching a new order, my phone buzzes.
Home Wrecker:Cedar Oak Lake. Midnight.
No explanation. No emoji. Just a place and a time—again.
I tell myself I’m not going, even as I set the phone down where I can see it. The pencil stays in my hand, but the sketch is already ruined.
And I don’t go.
Ansel bursts in the next afternoon, dropping a coffee on my desk like a grenade. “You're glowing, Slay Muffin. Spill.” “I’m not.” She leans on my chair back, studying me for a beat before casually shifting gears. “Theo’s been asking when we’ll come over for dinner. He claims he makes a mean carbonara.”
“I’ll believe it when I taste it,” I say, shaking my head.
She smirks. “Exactly what I told him.”
The next week, I find myself on Elaine’s porch with a sweating glass of iced tea, pretending I came to “check on our progress.” We talk about the plan for all of five minutes before we’re trading stories about the worst customers we’ve ever had. She tells me about the time a parent threatened to sue because their kid didn’t get enough playing time, and she had to smooth it over as if it were a federal case. I laugh harder than I have in months.
When I leave, she doesn’t walk me to the car. She just leans back in her chair, watching me go.
Two nights before Donovan’s return, I can’t sleep. I pace the length of my bedroom, half-listening to the hum of the AC unit. I try to think of the plan. Instead, I picture the lake. Her laugh. The way she looked at me without looking away.
My phone buzzes.
Home Wrecker:Open your front door.
I frown, set my phone down, and head down the stairs. When I pull the door open, Elaine’s leaning against the frame, a little too casual to be accidental. One hand in her pocket, the other holding a bottle of red, like an apology wrapped in glass.
No warning, just her.
“You’re working too much,” she says, slipping past me without waiting for an invitation. “I’m fixing that.”
I close the door behind her. “What happened to calling first?”
“What happened to taking breaks?” she shoots back, dropping the wine on the counter. Her eyes flick to the half-finished sketch on my desk. “You’ll burn yourself out.”
“You didn’t bring food this time,” I say, and it’s not an accusation, but it feels like one.
Her mouth curves, slow and deliberate. “Told you I wouldn’t. You’ll have to figure out what to do with me instead.”
The words hang there, heavier than they should be. I break eye contact first and reach for two glasses, even though I should tell her to leave. She watches me the whole time, the faintest smirk tugging at her mouth like she’s already won something I don’t remember agreeing to play for.
I set the glasses on the counter. She follows, close enough that the edge of her jacket brushes my arm. The cork pops, a soft sound in the quiet of the house, and she pours us two glasses.
I hand her a glass, fingers grazing hers. It’s not intentional. It’s not accidental either.
She takes a sip without breaking eye contact. “Are you always this easy to get to?”
“Depends who’s knocking,” I say, leaning back against the counter. “And what they’re bringing.”
Her gaze flicks to the wine, then back to me. “So, if I’d brought food again, would you have actually eaten it?”
I don’t answer. Not because I don’t know, but because we both already know the answer.
We drink in silence for a moment. Outside, the street’s quiet. Inside, I’m hyperaware of the sound of her breathing, the way she leans one hip against the countertop.
