“That wasn’t his fault.”
Chris put a hand on her knee. “Whether he put the nuts in that dish himself or not, Trent was in charge of every plate that went out of that kitchen. He would have checked the food. You know this, Emily. A chef with his qualifications and experience should have noticed the plate looked different from the others. He had a chance to correct it and he didn’t. Even I could tell you what chopped up peanuts look like and I get excited when someone hands me some Taco Bell.”
“But…”
“No buts. He may have been dealing with a lot of stress, but the first opportunity some creature with boobs and a restaurant batted her eyelashes at him, he pounced. He used you. After two years as your fiancé, if he was unhappy, he owed you the courtesy of telling you he wanted out.”
“I know.”
“Personally, I think he enjoyed the rush. He slept with the woman down the road, for fuck’s sake.”
“I think he needs help.”
“He probably does but it can’t come from you. You can’t fix someone who won’t admit he’s broken.”
Broken. The word sat like a knife in her chest. Something stung her eye. She waited for the deluge of tears but for some reason, they still refused to flow.
“You’re a smart woman, Em. You don’t need me to tell you he’s bad news. ‘Better a little chiding than a great deal of heartbreak.’”
“Is that from one of your poems?”
“Nah. Shakespeare.The Merry Wives of Windsor. I know better than to take credit for that guy.” Chris grinned and mussed her hair. “Although I was tempted to quote Def Leppard instead. Their lyrics usually work in the same situations.”
“You’re a goofball.”
Her brother kissed her on the top of her head. “Perhaps, but this goofball knows one thing. You should be with a man who treats you like a queen.”
An image of Michael Zorn popped into Emily’s head. Who was she kidding? His image hadn’t ever left. She was tempted to text him to see how tiling day went at the house but decided against it. He’d already been way more supportive than she would have expected. She could hardly expect Michael to be at her emotional beck and call. Besides, surely he had plans, a social life. He must date. A man like him probably had hundreds of women offering him their bodies in lieu of payment for cleaning up their grout.
“Tell me more about Michael Zorn.”
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Read my mind. It’s creepy.”
“I work at a university. I spend all my time with young women. I can read them like a book.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re avoiding my question. Tell me about Zorn.”
“There’s nothing to tell. Our acquaintance began with a few emails about fixtures and caulking. Not exactly the basis of a grand romance.”
“And yet you admit you have feelings for him?”
“No. Maybe. It’s irrelevant.”
“He defended you in front of Trent.”
“Yeah, a couple of times.”
“My Muse is calling.” Chris held up a finger, pursed his lips, and put on a pompous poet face. “There once was a girl with a house. Michael hated her soon-to-be-spouse. Michael gave her a thrill when he wielded his drill. Before she knew it, she was unbuttoning her blouse.”
“Chris! This is serious.” Emily threw a couch cushion at him but couldn’t help laughing. “I knew the university paid you to write dirty limericks.”
“What? That one was awesome. I may get a copyright for it. Mark my words, sis. School children will be reciting it after my death.”
“Which will be at my hands. You’re impossible. Go home.”
Chris leaned back and kicked off his shoes, propping his feet up on the coffee table. “Nope. I think I’ll stay here with you tonight. You know, just in case your loser ex-fiancé actually does turn up shitfaced, begging for reconciliation. I don’t want you to cave.” He looked around. “Now where do you keep the wine glasses?”
