“Good for her.”
“Right?”
I don’t tell her the couple is Charlie and Marlene, and they’re probably fighting about Marlene feeding the pigeons again. I don’t want to ruin her story.
She jerks her chin toward a guy sitting alone beneath a birch tree, picking at blades of dying grass. “Stood up. By the girl he’s been in love with for years. He finally asked her out, spent hours getting ready, prepping conversation starters. And she’s nowhere to be found.”
“Your stories are pretty depressing.”
“Not all of them.”
I twist toward her slightly, my arm still behind her. “You haven’t made up one about us yet.”
She stills, cup halfway to her lips. “What?”
“If someone was watching us right now.” I nod toward the square. “What would they say?”
She opens her mouth, then closes it. Her gaze drifts to thepeople around us. When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter.
“I think they’d see two people trying really hard not to look like they’re enjoying each other’s company.”
The words hang in the cold October air.
“And they’d probably say we’re failing.”
I can’t breathe.
She’s staring at her cup, cheeks flushed pink, and I should deflect. Make a joke. Remind us both this can’t happen.
But I don’t.
I just sit there, my arm behind her, close enough to touch, and let our uncomfortable truth settle between us like a confession neither of us meant to make.
Eventually she stands, brushing invisible lint off her jeans, and I follow, tossing our cups in the nearest trash can. The walk to the truck is silent, but different now. Charged. Full of everything we’re not saying.
When we get to the cabin, Cavall is at the window, tail blurring as it wags. Genevieve smiles at the sight of him, and she slips him a baby carrot while she unpacks the groceries. She thinks I don’t see it.
I do, though.
I see everything when it comes to her.
But it doesn’t really matter, does it?
Because Art saw her first.
Chapter 28
Genevieve
The kitchen smells incredible.
Caramelized onions, thyme, the deep richness of red wine reducing in the Dutch oven. I’ve commandeered Lance’s criminally underused Wolf range like it’s my birthright, and for the first time in weeks, I feel like myself.
Coq au vin. My father’s recipe. The peace-offering dish, the apology meal, the one we made together when words failed us both. Tonight it’s serving a different purpose.
Art’s coming over, and I need him relaxed. Comfortable. Off guard.
Because I have questions, and Art keeps leaving before I can ask them.
