Page 58 of The Backup Plan

Within minutes, we have yet another package—a lamp with an unapologetically yellow shade—that we add to the growing pile in his truck’s back seat before we head back and continue walking through the art district.

The setting sun adds a reprieve to the heat, but not by much. Lucas glances at me sideways. “So?”

“So?” I draw the word out.

“How am I doing?”

“On negotiating for home décor? I say solid A minus.”

“How about on rehabbing my shoulder?”

I stop walking. “No work talk.”

He laughs and holds his hands up. “Fair.”

We walk another few steps. “Your throws look good,” I say.

He barks out a laugh and tugs on my hand to get me to stop. “Didn’t you just say no work talk?”

“I’m speaking as a football fan and not as your doctor.”

“Oh.” He crosses his arms over his chest and lifts his eyebrows. “I’m intrigued. Go on.”

“Your spirals are tight, precision is spot-on, and there’s no hesitation when you throw.” I shrug. “You’re compensating less than you think.”

I wonder if that’s pride or relief I see in his expression. Maybe both.

“I’ll take that. And because it was so positive, I’ll ignore the fact the last comment was partially work talk.”

“It was. You’re right. What’s the punishment?” I ask it playfully but the quirk of his eyebrows and the slow crawl of his lips says his mind just ventured where mine did.

“Emery?” A voice cuts through the noise.

I freeze. I don’t know anyone here, but when I turn, the woman standing there looks familiar, and it takes only a second for recognition to slam into me.

She smiles cautiously as if she’s worried I don’t recognize her. “Emery Collins, right?”

My two worlds collide in a way I don’t want them to. My smile is hesitant and my tongue feels thick. “Marci?”

“Oh my God. Yes. From the cancer research fundraiser. You and—”

“It’s Emery Porter now,” I say and watch the I just stuck my foot in my mouth realization flicker over her features. In my periphery, Lucas’s head jostles but he doesn’t say a word.

And neither does Marci. Instead, she drags her gaze up and down Lucas, as if comparing him to the man she thought Jared to be.

There’s no comparison.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’ll leave you be—clearly you’re busy—but good seeing you again.”

“It definitely was,” I say with a fake smile and an equally performative wave.

Not that she was to blame in any way, shape, or form for my divorce, but it’s always weird to come face-to-face with someone who was Jared’s acquaintance. A part of me wants to scream from the rooftop what an asshole he is so that people know, but I don’t really think that’s appropriate. I do however take satisfaction in knowing I was smart enough when we married to keep my degree and my reputation in my maiden name.

Maybe in the back of my mind I already knew somehow.

Why does a small part of me want her to recognize Lucas, be surprised I could land someone like him, and rush back to tell Jared—even if it is nowhere near the truth?

I can feel Lucas’s gaze on me and wait for him to ask the million questions his eyes say he wants to ask.