“Good.” Lisa nods firmly, looking stern but pleased. “I knew you’d come around. I had a good feeling about you, Ian.”
I take a deep breath and set the bag on the floor at my feet. “Let’s hope Sarah does, too.”
Chapter 17
Sarah
It’s well after ten p.m. by the time I make it back to my house that night. It’s been a long day of job training with several residents participating in the Workability Program that Simon created to provide career outlets for adults with developmental disabilities.
It’s rewarding work, but exhausting.
Or maybe that’s not it. I’ve been wiped out all week, and I suspect work has little to do with it.
I trudge from the street up the path to my doorstep, imagining myself in a hot bath with a glass of wine. My mind adds Ian to the picture, positioning him behind me with my spine cradled against his chest and his hand cupped possessively over my breast.
“Knock it off,” I snarl out loud to my brain, and the image goes away.
If only it were that easy to switch off all my other achy thoughts. The ones where I remind myself what an idiot I am for falling in love with Ian Nolan. Or what an idiot he is for thinking we could ever forge a marriage out of legal forms and handshakes. Like that’s even possible.
A bath. A bath by myself with a big glass of wine and my favorite lavender essential oil. That’s all I need.
I shove my key in the door, then freeze.
Is that music?
It is music. And it’s coming from inside my house.
I frown at the door, trying to place it. The notes are familiar and the beat?—
“It’s the fucking soundtrack from Music and Lyrics.”
Just what I need. Something else to remind me of Ian.
Fumbling with my key, I try to remember if I left my stereo running. It’s been ages since I listened to this, but my my phone must’ve connected to the speakers and found it on random search.
It figures. Even my playlists are out to torture me.
I finally get my key in the lock and turn it the right direction. As I push through the door, I’m greeted by a mouthwatering smell that hits me with an unexpected wave of nostalgia.
“Picante Chicken Top Ramen.”
The familiar voice is followed by Ian stepping out of my kitchen. He’s wearing bright red oven mitts and holding a steaming pot. The rest of him is clad in jeans and a white T-shirt.
No, wait.
A white T-shirt with a cartoon print of a tuxedo shirt and jacket on the front. There’s even a jaunty little bowtie printed under the collar, and what in God’s name is happening here?
As I stare with my jaw on the floor, Ian strides toward my dining room table.
Make that the spot where my dining room table used to be.
I stand there with my hand on the door and my jaw on the floor, wondering what on earth I’ve just walked into. “Where is my—what is all this?—”
“I did some redecorating.” Ian reaches past me to push the door closed like it’s the most normal thing in the world to enter a woman’s home and rearrange her furniture.
And replace some of it with—oh my God, is that a beanbag chair?
The brown lump sits where my dining room chairs used to be, big enough for two butts nestled close together. My knotty pine table is gone, too, replaced by an upside-down milk crate that holds two cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
