She hated herself for it, even as she replayed the night again and again. Even as she craved it, in that primal, animal way that had nothing to do with logic or restraint.
No. Stop.She had to stop thinking about him. Not just stop, Jenna needed to hit the eject button, blast herself out of her own head, find the nearest vacuum, and let it suck the Deacon St. Claire infestation right out of her.
He was Deacon St. Claire. That would be like Paris Hilton marrying Robbie. Well, not Robbie because he’s gay, but still. And not Paris Hilton because theyonlyowned hotels.
Jenna slammed the knife down with a little too much force, slicing through the bell pepper and into the soft grain of the cutting board. She’d have to sand out the groove later, another thing on her list of endless chores.
Deacon was a natural disaster packaged as a human being, with a gravitational pull that warped every rational thought she had. The worst part was how much she wanted to be drawn in, to lose herself in the chaos for once instead of holding everything together.
But she couldn’t. She had a life to maintain, a schedule to keep, and a daughter to raise. And the daughter’s schedule, as everyone in Hope Falls knew, could only be described as “Olympic-level.” Blake had cheer, debate club, soccer, her volunteering, and her newest obsession with French baking that left Jenna’s kitchen smelling like burnt butter and existential defeat every other weekend. There was no room for distraction, let alone a distractionthat made her hands shake and her chest feel like it was packed with helium balloons.
She forced herself to focus on the present, to compartmentalize, like she always did. She pictured her mind as a series of tidy boxes stacked in a storage unit. Work, motherhood, finances, Deacon. The Deacon box belonged way, way in the back, right behind the heavy crates labeled ‘single motherhood’ and ‘abandonment issues.’ She closed the lid, duct-taped it, and gave it an extra kick for good measure.
It had been three days since he’d walked into her salon. Three days of relentless, bone-deep distraction. Before, she’d thought the ache of missing him was bad. Now she knew differently. This was a whole-body Hope Falls invasion syndrome. Her symptoms: fatigue, loss of appetite, restlessness, and an alarming tendency to stare out the window as if Deacon were a migratory bird she could spot if only she timed it right.
But she had to get it together. She had a huge event to prep for—the charity gala. The salon wasn’t just at capacity, thanks to a clerical, Robbie error, they were overbooked. She had to hire a temp stylist, and they had fifty clients coming in that day. Fifty appointments, fifty different people counting on her salon to make them look and feel like the most beautiful versions of themselves. And she hadn’t slept more than two hours in a row since trivia night. There was no margin for error, no room for emotional turbulence. She had to be on point, laser-focused, the way she always was when the stakes were high.
She tried to recite her mental mantra, “You’re not special.”
Not in a derogatory way, but in the way her therapistdescribed, no feeling was unique, every human impulse had a precedent.
Then she tried another, “He’s just a man.”
Because that’s all he was. He was just aman.
If just man, why no date him?Yaya’s voice sounded in her head, thick with her Greek accent and seasoned with the kind of authority that brooked no argument.
The thunk of the knife was interrupted by the slamming of the front door, a sound so familiar it had become the unofficial soundtrack of her life.
“Mom!” Blake’s voice rang out, bright and impatient.
“In the kitchen,” she called out.
Jenna tried not to think about the fact that she only had three more years of this. Three more years of screen doors slamming as Blake shouts her name. It sucked. Why did the kids have to leave?
Growing up, Jenna never wanted kids. In her fantasy life, she was Carrie Bradshaw, sashaying through Manhattan in heels and a tutu, writing about love while ordering takeout at midnight. But once she had Blake, the moment that baby girl was laid in her arms and she stared into her eyes, that was it. Her priorities rearranged themselves in a single, seismic moment. Blake was her reason, her axis, her everything. Her heart was now living outside of her body, forever. All that mattered was making the best possible world for that girl. That was it.
“I got a job,” Blake announced, breezing into the kitchen and immediately zeroing in on the sliced peppers. She plucked a strip and popped it into her mouth, crunching contentedly.
Jenna smiled, remembering how toddler Blake called bell peppers “spicy apples.” Jenna used to pack them in her lunch, cut into little rings and arranged by color, always with a smiley face drawn on the bag in Sharpie.
“That’s interesting considering you don’t have a work permit.” Jenna continued chopping the peppers for the chicken fajitas she was making for dinner.
“Seriously, Mom?” Blake rolled her eyes in perfect synchronicity with a sigh. “Why do you have to take things so literal?”
Normally, when Blake was irritated, Jenna understood, this time she had no clue what her daughter’s irritation stemmed from. She didn’t have a work permit.
A knock sounded on the door.
“I’ll get it! Noah is coming over for dinner.”
Jenna had an open door policy for Blake’s boyfriend Noah to come over anytime for dinner. For one thing, she liked him. For another, she’d rather they hang out at her house than at his dad’s house or out on the streets. Not that Hope Falls had ‘streets.’
Blake bounded for the door with the excitable energy of a golden retriever puppy, nearly bowling over the recycling bin Jenna had stationed at the end of the hallway to remind herself—futilely, as it turned out—to take it out before Thursday morning.
Shit.
The door opened, and Jenna heard a man’s voice, muffled speaking, and then, “Mom!”
