I choke out a laugh. “Good of you to notice.”
“You’d be surprised at what I see done to a decent red. Here,” he hands me a fresh glass. Shuddering, he mocks, “Were you whispering incantations into it?”
Twisting around to face him instead of the birthday boy, my lips quirk, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I only ask because if the spell ricochets at me, it’s okay.” His eyes twinkle.
“So good to know.” I reach out to squeeze his hand. Troy takes it and when he does, an electrical charge shoots up my arm.
Neither of us moves. Neither of us says a word. We’re locked in each other’s gazes until Bryce’s voice exclaims, “Troy? What are you doing here?”
Recovering first, he clears his throat. “Happy birthday.”
Bryce whips his head in my direction. I lift my glass and take a sip of wine before saying flatly, “Surprise.”
“Really? For me?”
I shrug, my frustration evident. But that doesn’t seem to matter. Without a kiss, a hug, not even a thank you, Bryce sails into the room to bask in more glory he feels is his due.
Just as I’m about to follow him, Troy stops me with his hand on my wrist. “No matter what, I’ll always have your back, Maya.”
Flung back from the memory by the squeeze of Troy’s fingers on my hands, I exhale, “You did.”
He leans forward and the air between us hums, charged with everything that’s changed between us.
I admit something I haven’t even told my girls. “I hate that his emails still bother me.”
“I’d be surprised if they didn’t.”
I rear back slightly. “You would?”
“It’s residual leftover from your relationship with him. You weren’t just together for all those years; you were a part of each other’s lives for a long time before that.” His words hit deep because of their simple truth and because of the lack of resentment.
A part of me I didn’t realize I locked away that afternoon at Bryce’s cracks open. It’s a quiet pressure I didn’t know I’d been clutching to ensure I didn’t break—control. Control of my words. My story. My past.
Control how I could have fallen in love with a pile of turd like Bryce Parry when there are men like Troy Walsh in the world. With that thought, I lean forward until my forehead rests against his, my inhale absorbing his steady exhale. “Thank you,” I whisper. “For just… listening.”
“You never have to thank me for that.” His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers sifting through my hair. “You just need reminding of how strong you really are.”
I huff out a shaky laugh, because of course he’d say something like that.
When I finally pull back, he lets me go slowly, like he doesn’t want to but appreciates how I need to stand on my own two feet right now. That the moment of fragility has passed. I don’t understand how Troy gets me, but he does.
And that, more than anything, makes me both excited and terrified. Trying to lighten the moment, I bring us back to neutral territory. “What brought you upstairs?”
“I came to see if you’re interested in an afternoon snack.” His tone deliberately lighter.
“Are you cooking?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m starving.”
“Good.” He stands and offers me his hand.
Taking it, I believe things are good—at least for the first time since that email landed in my inbox. It’s not just because it’s Troy who says it—it’s the way he looks at me when he says it, like he’d take every bruise on my heart and bear it himself if I let him.
29
