"I'd better. The competition is fierce." She takes a long sip. "Enough about me. How was your first day as a co-ed?"
I tell her about my day, skipping my response to the article about Josh. I try not to think about Mel going to work with Tucker’s family.
"I'm terrified about statistics," I admit, adding chicken to the wok. "I barely passed algebra in high school. And I managed to avoid math the first time I tried this college thing…”
"You'll be fine," Mel says confidently. "You know how to work hard, Sloane. That's half the battle."
"I'm not sure hard work is enough for statistics."
"Trust me, it is. I've seen you tackle things you thought were impossible." She wheels closer, stealing a piece of bell pepper. “Hello? You made me a food prep station I can reach.”
I shake my head. “That was basic.”
"No, it wasn't. You're persistent. You don't give up." Her voice softens. "That's why I know you're going to be okay, post-divorce. You're already rebuilding."
Her faith in me brings a lump to my throat. This is what I'd been missing in my marriage—someone who saw me, who believed in me as an individual, not just as an extension of their life.
It reminds me, unexpectedly, of how Tucker looked at me. How he asked what I wanted, as if my desires mattered. How he focused on my pleasure as much as his own. For all his playboy swagger, there had been moments of genuine connection there, moments where I felt seen in a way I hadn't in years.
"Earth to Sloane," Mel says, waving a brown hand in front of my face. "You just glazed over. Thinking about statistics again?"
I shake my head, feeling my cheeks warm. "Just... processing everything. It's been a lot of change lately."
"Good change, though, right?"
I nod, turning back to the stir-fry, happy for the first time in years to be making my own choices based on my wants. "Yeah. Good change." If only I felt as confident as my words.
CHAPTER 6
TUCKER
My head throbsin time with each rep of the kettlebell swing, and not because of my knocked-out tooth. I grunt, pushing through the pain of my self-inflicted hangover as sweat drips onto the training mat I've rolled out in my living room.
"Your form is shit," Alder says from where he's doing perfect Russian twists: my twin brother, ever the technician, ever the perfectionist. Even our workouts are a study in contrasts—his movements precise and controlled, mine powerful but erratic.
"Your face is shit," I mutter, regretting the bottle of bourbon I nursed alone last night while scrolling through social media, scouring the internet for traces of Sloane Campbell Grentley.
“Real mature.” Alder switches to mountain climbers without missing a beat. "Seriously, Fucker, you're going to wreck your back if you keep swinging like that."
I drop the kettlebell with a thud that reverberates through my skull along with the entire building. "Happy now?"
"Ecstatic." He pauses, studying me. "You look like hell, by the way."
"Thanks for noticing."
"Late night?"
I grab a towel and wipe the sweat from my face. “Maybe I’m just road weary. Some of us had to drive back from the mountains yesterday."
"Right. Stellan's thing." Alder takes a long pull from his water bottle. "You seemed distracted on the phone. Meet someone?"
The question is casual, but my brother knows me too well. I consider lying, but what's the point? "Maybe."
His eyebrows shoot up. "Maybe? Since when is Tucker Stag uncertain about his conquests?"
"She's not a conquest," I snap, with more heat than intended.
Alder sets down his water bottle, suddenly interested. "Well, shit. Tell me.”
