“Well, I’m the President now, and it bothers me.”
Diesel changes tack. “Did you get your fortnightly update?”
Fern still keeps in touch with Eden. Every other week, she tries to update me on how well Eden’s doing, how settled she is. And when I shut her down, she tells someone else in the same room loud enough to make sure I hear it anyway.
I look down at my phone, pretending to check a message. “If we’re done, I’ve got a meeting.”
“Has she used the money you sent yet?”
I stand abruptly and grab my bike keys. I’m not discussing her.I can’t.
“Well, since we’re not talking about her,” Diesel adds, “you should know Martha reached out to Rabbit.”
I freeze. Eyes down. Heart hammering.
“Good for Rabbit,” I mutter, pushing past Diesel towards the door.
“He’s meeting up with her,” Diesel says. “In the village where she lives.”
My jaw clenches. He’s baiting me, and I refuse to bite.
After Eden left, I was obsessed over finding her. Planned a hundred ways I’d drag her back. But she made it clear in her letter that she needs space. And somehow, that letter was thereason I didn’t do shit. Cos if she thought all I was worth was a shitty letter, what’s the point?
So, Maggie kept me focussed. I worked my arse off. When I wasn’t working, I was in the gym. I got bigger. Made money. Stayed moving.
It doesn’t matter that I still want her. Still lie awake thinking about her. Still close my eyes and see that fucker hurting her.
But that torment keeps me grounded. It makes sure I stay away.
“The place can’t be that big,” Diesel adds casually.
I ignore him. “I’ll swing by the shop tonight, finish any late clients. You take an early one. Maybe take your old lady out.”
He keeps talking anyway. “Louth, apparently. Never heard of it, but it’s a nice little place in Lincolnshire—”
“Why are you telling me?” I snap, heat rising in my chest.
“Thought you’d wanna know where Rabbit is, in case you need him for a run or something.”
He smirks and walks away, his little grenade of information hitting exactly how he wanted.
CHAPTER TWO
EDEN
By the time I get home, my feet are killing me. I kick my shoes off the second the door closes behind me, groaning with relief as I stretch my toes against the cool floorboards. Normally, by this time, Martha has something simmering on the stove—soup, pasta, whatever she’s fancied that day—and the cottage smells like herbs and butter.
Tonight, there’s nothing but the faint smell of cut grass flowing in through the small kitchen window.
“Martha?” I call, hanging my coat, but there’s no answer. I’m too tired to worry yet. She’s probably still with Tom, tormenting him with her terrible flirting.
I head to the kitchen, fill a glass of water, and lean against the counter, letting the quiet settle around me.
A knock sounds on the door, and I blink. “Seriously?”
When I open it, Peter stands on the step, rosy cheeked, hair wind-ruffled from the fields, holding a large Tupperware tub likeit’s an offering. He’s one of the local farmers, in his early thirties and annoyingly handsome in that rugged, wholesome way that makes Martha nudge me every time he walks past.
“Evenin’, Eden.” His grin is shy but warm. “Made a new batch of soup. Thought you girls could test it for me.”
