Page 19 of The Right Kind of Wrong

That earned her a slow smile from Blake, who softened back against the sofa, finally relaxing. “It’s been an adjustment, for sure.”

Monroe wasn’t sure what the playbook was for discussing someone’s divorce, except that it was usually best not to bring it up to an almost stranger unless they did first. Blake didn’t seem especially happy about her circumstances, but she wasn’t exactly radiating anger either.

Still, the events earlier in the day pinged through Monroe’s mind, the way the woman at the festival had been so needlessly cruel.

Coming back home was like staring at the engorged underbelly of small-town politics, especially in a place that had been well-fed for the last decade. The town’s profile had been elevated in years past if the scale of today’s production was any indication.

Now, there wasn’t just personal pride on the line. There was probably a lot more money, too.

It was Monroe’s turn to lean forward and look at Blake intently. “Seems like there was no love lost between you and that woman today. At the Wild West Fest,” she added, since she’d been sitting behind a tree with Maisie and she didn’t think that Blake had seen her.

She could tell that Blake was mortified, as she put her hands over her face and let out a punctuated laugh. “God, you saw that?”

“Heard, more accurately,” she clarified, waiting for Blake to slide her fingers down her face so that she could see her eyes again.

Monroe didn’t have a lot of respect for the residents of Cypress Falls, and she wondered where Blake stood on the subject.

And, more interestingly, what Blake had done to fall from the town’s good graces.

Blake held her beer up to her bottom lip, unmoving. Finally, she took a long, indulgent drink, finishing off the amber contents of the bottle.

She set the empty bottle atop the coffee table in front of her, that same glassy look back in her eyes.

Shit. Blake had actually looked like that earlier because she’d been crying. Monroe hadn’t been making that up. Suddenly, Monroe felt about five inches tall, given the way that Blake was fidgeting, trying to find the words for whatever she was about to say.

“You don’t actually need to tell me anything,” Monroe cut in, trying to catch Blake’s downcast eyes. Trying to do anything to remove the rock from the pit of her own stomach, which felt a lot like she’d really fucked up.

This town—this fucking town—chewed people up and spit them back out. It had done it to her mom. And it’d done it to her brother.

The last thing that Monroe wanted was for Blake to feel the need to lay her perceived shortcomings, courtesy of the town’s hivemind opinions, on the table to satisfy Monroe’s curiosity.

When she still wouldn’t look at Monroe, Monroe placed her hand on Blake’s forearm. Warmth spread against her fingertips, but it had the desired effect—a couple, actually—as Blake looked up to meet her stare.

“For the record, that woman was a complete bitch to you. With her little minions scattered around, too.” God, she just wanted any version of a smile to return to Blake’s face—or at least to not be the cause of the despondent look she was wearing right now.

A small, tentative smile finally bloomed across Blake’s lips, and it settled something in Monroe that made it possible for her to breathe again. “Allison Landry-Haas excels at whatever she does,” Blake said.

“Like being the embodiment of a cartoon villain?” It was an observation more than a dig, but it didn’t hurt that it earned a soft laugh from Blake.

“She’s . . . a lot,” Blake finally responded, and it was wild to Monroe that she wouldn’t say an unkind word against a woman who so clearly didn’t hold Blake in the same esteem.

Guess Blake Bettencourt really was that genuinely nice, after all.

“And shockingly progressive. A hyphenated name in Cypress Falls? Will wonders ever cease?” Monroe realized, then, that she hadn’t moved her hand away from Blake’s. She was aware of the pads of her fingers pressing gently into warm, soft skin.

She drew her arm back, refusing to admit that she missed the contact. Besides Maisie, it had been a long while since she’d provided tactile comfort to another living person. Sylvia would have rather cut off a toe than show any true vulnerability.

Blake considered her words, her tone surprisingly serious. “Well, she’d never give up Landry, if she could help it. Her father, Tucker Landry, is the mayor.”

Monroe groaned. This town was so ridiculous. “Well, thank god upon meeting, everyone knows the degree of respect that she should be bestowed as the daughter of an elected official in a small town.”

“Don’t worry. If you get it wrong, she’ll tell you,” Blake said, no hint of humor in her voice.

“Clearly,” Monroe retorted, accepting the truth of Blake’s words based on what she’d seen today.

An owl hooted in one of the trees at the far end of the yard, and Monroe jumped. She hadn’t been subjected to this much nature in a long time, and it was far more jarring these days than the sounds of blaring horns and squealing tires.

“Fuck,” she laughed, an embarrassing tittering sound that made her feel much more like her teenage self than she would have liked.