"'Course it is. We take care of our own here. Always have." His voice warmed even further. "Your cabin will be ready, and Louisa's already planning a feast for Monday night. Fair warning—she's making her famous pot roast. The one you used to love."
I remembered that pot roast. Remembered sitting at their dinner table, feeling like I belonged somewhere for the first time in my life. Remembered Wyatt's foot finding mine under the table, a secret touch that made my heart race.
"I should go," I said, because if I stayed on this call any longer, I might do something stupid like cry.
"Of course. I'm sure you've got plenty to prepare." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice held something I couldn't quite identify. "Ivy? We're real glad you're coming. Real glad.”
“Me too, Owen,” I replied, even though I was weighed down with dread.
After we hung up, I sat in my expensive ergonomic chair in my corner office with its view of downtown Dallas, and I felt more lost than I had since stepping off that Greyhound bus fourteen years ago.
The drive home to my apartment in Uptown was a blur of traffic and memories I couldn't quite push down. My place was everything a successful consultant's home should be—modern, minimalist, decorated in shades of gray and white that the designer had assured me were "timeless and sophisticated." It looked like a magazine spread and felt about as personal.
"You're early."
I jumped, keys clattering on the entryway table. Mark stood in my kitchen, sleeves rolled up, something simmering on the stove that smelled like the expensive cooking classes he'd been taking.
"I thought we were going out," I said, setting my purse down carefully, trying to remember how to be the person he expected me to be.
He walked to me, his smile easy and practiced, and pressed a kiss to my forehead. His cologne was subtle, expensive, the kindthat whispered rather than shouted. "You said you needed wine after a long day. Figured you'd prefer staying in."
This was Mark—thoughtful in a calculated way, always doing the right things at the right times. He'd probably read an article about how successful relationships required such gestures. He was good at relationships, the way he was good at law—studied, methodical, effective.
He handed me a glass of something red and expensive. "Want to talk about it?"
"I got the Blackwood assignment," I said, taking a larger sip than was strictly polite.
His eyes lit up with genuine excitement. "Ivy, that's fantastic! That's the big one, right? The one everyone was after?" He pulled me into a hug that smelled like his cologne and the garlic he'd been chopping. "God, Doug must be beside himself. This could make your whole career."
"Yeah," I agreed against his shoulder. "It could."
"When do you leave?"
"Monday."
"Monday?" He pulled back, a frown creasing his artificially tanned forehead. "That's soon. How long will you be gone?"
"A month. Maybe more."
His frown deepened, and I could practically see him calculating how this would affect his schedule, our standing dinner reservations, and the charity gala next month, where he'd already RSVP'd for two.
"That's a long time. Maybe I could come visit? I've never seen that part of Texas. Could be interesting, seeing how the other half lives."
The thought of Mark in Copper Creek, his Italian leather shoes stepping where worn boots had taught me to dance, his rental car parked where a beat-up farm truck had been my whole world?—
"It'll be all work," I said quickly. "Sunrise to sunset in barns and pastures. You'd be bored out of your mind."
He laughed, pulling me closer, his hands settling on my waist with practiced familiarity. "You're probably right. I don't really do rural." His thumb traced circles on my hip, a gesture that should have been intimate but felt more like marking territory. "We should make the most of the time before you leave, then."
This was the part where I was supposed to melt into him, let him lead me to the bedroom, lose myself in the kind of sex that was perfectly fine—technically proficient, mutually satisfying, completely forgettable.
But tonight, with Owen's voice still echoing in my ears and the ghost of a silver horseshoe against my throat, I couldn't pretend.
"I need to shower," I said, stepping back. "Long day. Give me twenty minutes?"
Disappointment flashed across his face before he smoothed it away with another practiced smile. "Sure. Dinner will be ready when you are."
I escaped to the bathroom, turning the water as hot as I could stand it. Steam filled the space, fogging the mirror until I couldn't see myself anymore. Good. I didn't want to see the woman I'd become—successful, polished, empty.
