Rose turned back to the young foundation director. “I don’t hate Tom. We’re amicably divorced,” she said to Sloane, hoping that would keep everyone clear on her intentions.
But, of course, Adrian had thoughts about the situation. Thoughts he would insist on sharing.
Adrian: Maybe wait until Caroline and I are back from her semester abroad to see Tom?
Adrian: We could do a group date.
Adrian: And I’ll help with the inn when we’re back.
Rose grimaced. Adrian had been not-so-subtly campaigning for Rose to make peace with Tom ever since she’d hired Caroline to start full-time in the fall—Caroline and Tom were close friends—but he’d probably imagined something like Rose and Tom sniffing each other through a closed door while Adrian and his girlfriend fed them treats and stroked their hair in a soothing way.
Rose was a big girl. She could be mature and reasonable. She could handle this.
Rose: I’m not going to be dating Tom at all
Rose: He has a serious boyfriend and I need the inn fixed before tourist season
She shoved the phone back in her pocket and looked up to find Sloane smirking at her. “I don’t know why you’d ask for help from some guy you don’t want to get back together withand don’t want to sleep with,” Sloane said. “I think you’relyyying. By the way, you’re wearing two different shoes.”
Rose looked down and jolted because Sloane was correct and she was wearing one black ankle boot and one brown.
It wasn’t like Rose was typically a stress zombie—anymore—but she hadn’t been able to sleep after seeing Tom. And seeing way more of Tom than she’d anticipated seeing, down to his flimsy little boxers on his stupidly muscular thighs.
She didn’t want to be like this. She wanted to be unmoved by Tom’s naked chest and Tom’s easy promises. Helplessly longing for Tom was too familiar a feeling andnot one she wanted to feel again.
Her phone buzzed.
Adrian: He doesn’t have a boyfriend.
Adrian: He didn’t mention anyone at Christmas.
Adrian: Caroline also says he’s not dating anyone.
Rose entered her ex’s name and Boyd Kellagher’s into the search bar of her phone’s browser, copied and pasted one of the dozens of tabloid stories that resulted into the chat, and didn’t quite get the image of Tom’s lips on Boyd’s out of her retinas before she’d made a terrible face in front of Sloane.
“I’m sorry I’m such a mess today,” Rose groaned, putting herhands over her eyes. “I swear I can still do my job. Just give me one more day to get my act back together.”
“What, now you’re worried about your professional reputation?” Sloane asked, sounding delighted. “I’m just, like, excited for you. I used to think you were kind of scary, you were so perfect. Just phone it in for a while, it’s fine. Your marriage is more important.”
“I can’t phone it in,” Rose protested. She was short and busty and named after a flower. Nobody ever took her seriouslyunlessshe did her job flawlessly. “Besides, Tom has a boyfriend. The only reason he’s coming with me is to help with construction, and that’s the only reason I want him there.”
Sloane’s smirk grew into a grin. She flicked long glossy hair over her shoulder and looked down the street, where a figure toting a large duffel bag had just come into view. Tom. Rose took a deep breath to brace herself, but Sloane elbowed her.
“Is that all you’re worried about? The half-assing of your job, the finessing of the extraneous boyfriend? The boyfriend is not an issue. No guy volunteers to do home improvement projects for free if he doesn’t at least want a round of weepy, nostalgic remember-when sex with you.”
Rose scoffed to cover the sharp feeling in her chest. That was the last thing Tom wanted from her. Someone with Boyd Kellagher at home did not go out for a tightly wound thirty-four-year-old investment manager.
After the number her divorce had done on her, it had taken years before she’d begun to feel like she might be attractive to some people—in the right lighting, if she wore expensivelingerie, if the man in question was a boob guy and not a leg guy—but rose-tinted nostalgia glasses were not going to make her more appealing to Tom after he got a look at her in plain daylight. Which was fine, because she shouldn’t care if Tom found her attractive now anyway.
“Holy shit,” Sloane murmured, squinting to get a better look at Tom as he approached.
“What?”
“Construction reasonsmy ass. You didn’t tell me he was hot,” she said, voice emerging in a joyful squeak.
Alas, Tom was hot.
He was objectively hot, and not just cute in a floppy-hair-and-baby-fat way, like he’d been at eighteen. His thick dark hair was shining in the rare winter sun, long enough to brush his jaw. His eyes were shaded by a pair of expensive Wayfarers. His profile was classic and handsome, his chin chiseled, his smile broad and white. He wore a new black waffle-knit shirt and cheap, faded blue jeans, the former cradling his muscular new physique and the latter hanging from his narrow hips.
