by Olivia Miles
Brooke hid her smile and set down the book. “Let’s check in next week.”
Candy’s eyes seemed to sparkle again. “It is exciting, getting married. But then, you already know that.”
Oh, for crying out loud. Rather than be annoyed, Brooke was amused. Candy would soon learn that there was no story to be had here. That she and Kyle were just a thing of the past, and the most salacious thing about them was that they were technically still married.
Technically.
*
By the close of the day, Brooke could think of nothing but a hot bath and a cold glass of wine. It had been another good day, at least for the business, and she knew that she should focus on that rather than worry about anything that might go wrong. Design, like anything creative, was subjective. She couldn’t take someone else’s opinion personally, even though, when it came to people like her previous boss, that often felt impossible.
After Candy had left, most disappointed, and only after she had finally admitted defeat about dragging any good gossip from Brooke’s lips, there had been three drop-ins, one follow-up consultation made, and a good meeting with the bride from Pine Falls, who was thrilled with the bridesmaid dress sketches. They’d narrowed it down to two designs, and Brooke decided to use the few remaining minutes of her workday selecting fabric samples from her back room. The space was small enough that if anyone came in, she’d hear the door jangle its bells.
She sighed happily when she flicked on the light in her fabric closet, where bolts of fabric were arranged by color and texture. The bride wanted her bridesmaids in blue, and Brooke had a very specific chiffon in mind—something that was soft, but not too literal. A shade that tended toward grey in certain lighting, and wouldn’t compete with the bride. Something that would look gorgeous with the lake shimmering in the backdrop of the photos that would no doubt rest in frames for the next fifty years.
Or, in her case, more like fifty days.
She pulled in a sharp breath. She should have expected this. New York had been full of distraction. Every day brought a new face, and as the years passed by and her new life became less new and more regular, thoughts of Kyle faded into the past.
Which was where they belonged. The only reason that she was even thinking about him now was because of all these ridiculous dates he insisted upon. She had plenty to occupy her mind, after all. This boutique being the primary one.
She consulted the swatches again, deciding to add one more to the mix in a deeper shade, closer to navy. Of course, the fabric she wanted was on the very top shelf, and even standing on her tiptoes, she couldn’t reach it. Still, her step stool was upstairs in her apartment; she’d been using it to dust the tops of her kitchen cabinets last night when she couldn’t fall asleep, and she didn’t want to leave the shop unattended at all, not even to dash up the back stairs. She tried again, shifting a few bolts around, and then, before she could even process what was happening, shrieked as all the shelves seemed to collapse on each other and the fabric came tumbling down around her.
From behind her, she heard the husky rumble of a laugh, and she darted her eyes over her shoulder to see none other than Kyle standing in the open doorway, taking in the sight.
“Looks like I arrived just in time,” he said with a rather cocky grin.
She glared at him. “More like you distracted me.”
“Distracted you? But you didn’t even seem to hear me come in.”
That was true, all true, but so was what she had said. He was on her mind, day and night, and she wasn’t thinking clearly.
“Here, let me help you,” he said, reaching out a hand to help her up.
She wanted to snatch her arm away, but she was wearing those ridiculous stiletto strappy sandals that she’d always known would be the death of her one day, and so, with gritted teeth, she held out a hand.
He took it. And oh, it felt good. Warm and familiar and as comforting as her favorite old blanket, and she wasn’t so sure if that was a good or a bad thing. Only as he hoisted her to her feet, and she steadied herself on her heels, their eyes locked and she knew that it was a bad thing. Very bad. His eyes were locked on hers, as if he was searching for something, or waiting for something. And his hand, it still held hers, and to her horror, she realized that she wasn’t a passive recipient here. She was holding his hand back, long after she needed assistance.
Quickly, she pulled herself free and turned, looking at the bolts that had now fallen to the floor. She could forget the bath and wine, at least for a few hours. This fabric was nearly as important as the gowns themselves. She could already see wrinkles appearing on the taffeta; she’d have to steam it carefully before she restocked it.
And there would be no restocking until she had fixed the shelves.
She checked her watch. It was past five now. She doubted that Gus would be willing to come by on such short notice, and her father was many things, but handy had never been at the top of the list for the Conway brothers. Her uncle Dennis had fallen off a ladder last year, after all!
“I should call Gus and see if he can get over here soon,” she said. Or maybe Cole McCarthy—pull in the old family favor now that he was dating her cousin Maddie. He was a fine contractor; the bakery was proof of that.
“I can get these shelves back up for you,” Kyle said simply, not that she’d be hinting, or wanting that. No, what she wanted was for Kyle to have never come inside. For him to drop this stupid agreement.
What she wanted was to never see him again. To forget him.
Easier said than done, she thought.
He inspected the wall, and then looked down at the shelves. “These are old. And you did have them stuffed to capacity.”
“I like fabric,” she said simply.
His mouth lifted. “I think that’s obvious. But then, you always did.”
She grinned, remembering their last Christmas together when all she’d asked for was three yards of embroidered linen to make the curtains for the cottage they’d already planned to move into. Kyle had assumed she was joking, but she wasn’t, and when he saw the delight in her face when she opened the box, he’d seen firsthand how much this meant to her. Designing. Creating.
It was the last time she truly felt he had supported her dreams.
“Fine.” She blew out a sigh. Fixing her shelves was the least he could do for her, all things considered. “And thank you,” she added, more than a little begrudgingly.
Still, it was nice of him, and she knew that Gus rarely took on small projects. She’d been lucky to get him over to hang some lights and the sign out front. Fixing shelves would hardly classify as an emergency to him, even if those shelves did hold some of her most cherished possessions.
She began to carefully gather up the fabric and prop the boards against the wall.
“Do you have a toolbox around here?” Kyle asked.
“No, actually.” She wondered if the hardware store was still open, and assumed that it was. Would they go together? That would certainly get half the town talking.
“I’ve got one back at the pub,” Kyle offered. He scrutinized the shelves as Brooke cleared away the fabric. “This is going to take a while. I can bring back something for dinner if you’re hungry?”
At the mention of food, Brooke’s stomach grumbled loud enough for Kyle to hear. His eyebrows shot up before he burst out laughing. Brooke’s cheeks flamed with heat.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Only because I’m hungry,” she told him. As if that much wasn’t obvious. Still, she didn’t want him to think this was anything more. Unless… “Although it could count toward part of our agreement. If we’re spending the evening together, and food is involved.”
Kyle’s laughter stopped when he gave her a long, unreadable look. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
Brooke watched him go without a word, feeling sad at how she’d ruined a moment and even sadder that she could no longer read his expressions. Once there had been a time when she knew K
yle as well as she knew her sisters. She could tell when he was happy, excited, sad, mad, all without him even opening his mouth. She could anticipate his every move, and now, he seemed unpredictable. Did he really want to spend his evening fixing her broken shelves?
And if he did, then why?
10
Brooke couldn’t afford to think about Kyle right now. As she stood, worrying over her soon-to-be ex-husband, her fabric was getting wrinkled and in danger of being stepped on, and given how much of her savings she’d already sunk into the business, she didn’t exactly have the funds to replace anything, and even if she did, she was thousands of miles from Manhattan, and she highly doubted the craft store in the neighboring town of Pine Falls carried anything she could use.
She did her best, stacking bolts of lace and satin on her desk, the coffee table in the seating area, and on the velvet benches in the dressing rooms. By the time she was finished, Kyle was back, holding a toolbox in one hand and a pizza box in the other. He shook some water from his hair.
“Storm’s rolling in,” he said.
Spring showers, she thought, remembering how much she loved the smell of rain at this time of year, how it made the grass greener, the flowers bigger, and always gave her the best night’s sleep.
She eyed the pizza box from Fiorre’s—the place she only ever went with Kyle. Her family was more of a Martino’s supporter because the Martino family lived two doors down, and Mrs. Martino and Brooke’s mother were in the same bridge club. But Fiorre’s was the best pizza in town. Maybe the best in the Midwest. It certainly gave some of the New York joints a bit of competition. The smell was enough to make her mouth water, and she didn’t have to look to know the toppings he’d selected.
“House special?” she asked, eyeing the box greedily.
“Is there any other choice?” He gave a little grin. It was their usual order.
“Hawaiian, if you ask one of my sisters,” she laughed.
“It’s still hot,” he said, giving her a look that she did recognize. It was an invitation.
Despite her reservations, she wasn’t about to pass up a steaming hot slice of pizza covered in all her favorite toppings. She looked around the storefront, at the pristine dresses in various shades of white and ivory and her fabric, which was piled neatly on every available surface other than the floor.
Her eyes darted outside, hoping they could sit on a bench, perhaps, but the rain showed no signs of slowing.
“I guess we should take this upstairs.” As soon as she caught the look on his face, she added, “I don’t allow food in the shop.”
“And here I thought you actually wanted to invite me in,” he bantered.
But she had done just that, hadn’t she? She’d opened the door to him, even when she’d been so clear she was determined to shut it.
She looked at the man before her. The years had been good to him. Filled out his frame and gave a weathered look to his already kind eyes. It was the eyes that pulled her in, brought her back to a time and place when she felt whole, and content. Kyle had always been easygoing, thoughtful, and loyal. She’d had as much fun at his side as she did with her sisters, and that was saying a lot, considering she and Gabby and Jenna rarely argued. He was good for laughs, up for a night out as much as a night in, great at telling stories, good at listening, too. She’d never stopped liking him, she realized. And that was just the problem.
“Seriously, the last thing I need is grease on my fabric.” Resigned to the fact that she had no other choice, she led him and the pizza to the back of the shop and opened the door to the stairwell.
She eyed him as she held it open for him to pass. No, she thought, grease on her fabric wasn’t the last thing she needed. The absolute last thing she needed was to be spending yet another evening with Kyle.
And enjoying it more than she should.
*
Kyle didn’t know what to make of Brooke’s apartment. He noted the small bunch of flowers sitting in a vase on the counter, the blanket tossed over the old sofa, and a glimpse of some framed photos on the bedside table through the half-open door.
It was a nice space, with big windows looking over Main Street, and tidy, sparse furnishings, with small touches that showed she had already made herself at home.
Maybe that was what didn’t sit right. Brooke’s home should be the cottage tucked at the end of a gravel road, the one with the dining table he’d carved for her, the one with the curtains she’d sewn hanging from the windows, and the two chairs he’d made sitting side by side out on the water’s edge. The place they’d chosen and shared.
The place where he still lived.
Now, the reality that she had moved on hit him harder than it did when she’d gone to New York. It was impossible to picture her life there, to a place he’d only been once, for Christmas, as a kid. He imagined heavy traffic and loud sirens and a cramped apartment. He’d dared to think that she was unhappy. That she’d come to her senses. Return to Blue Harbor.
And she had. Only not for him.
And now, she had her own place, here in their town. She had her own furniture, limited as it may be, and photos in frames of events he wasn’t part of, and a fridge full of food that was only for her. She’d an entire new life for herself.
While he’d stayed behind, letting the years pass, clinging to the past. Maybe too much of the past.
He couldn’t deny the irony of it. It was exactly what she’d accused him of doing, after all. Not changing. Not thinking of the future. Was it so bad that he liked things just as they were and had always been?
Given that she’d left him, he supposed it was.
“Something to drink?” Brooke was looking at him expectantly, and he forced his attention back to the present. “Afraid I don’t buy beer, but I have wine. Family blend, of course.”
“Of course.” His smile felt tight. “I’ll take a glass. Don’t worry. I promise your shelves won’t come out crooked.”
“You can handle your own,” she said wryly. “Besides, you’re a better carpenter than Gus and Cole combined.”
He knew that she wasn’t just flattering him, and the compliment was one he didn’t quite know how to take. Once, working with his hands, sanding and chiseling until he had created something he could be proud of was part of his daily life. It had been a long time since anyone asked about his woodwork. Most people in town probably forgot about it by now, even his mother barely mentioned it, probably because she suspected it was a sore spot for him, much the way she never mentioned Brooke either.
But then, Brooke hadn’t witnessed the lapse of time these past years. She just remembered where they left off. Back when he was still dreaming big, sketching designs. Married to her in every meaning of the word.
Looking around the room, he supposed he could say he was guilty of the same. He wanted Brooke to be that girl so full of ideas and hope and excitement for life. So full of love for him. But time had gone by, slowly at first, and then steadily, and yesterday was a very long time ago.
Instead, he saw someone who was a little more withdrawn, a little more uptight, and a little less happy.
He frowned when he considered his part in all of that.
Brooke opened a cabinet and pulled out two wine glasses, then a drawer to retrieve a corkscrew. It was amazing that something so innocent could feel like a stab to his chest.
This was her world. And he had no place in it.
There was no table, two mismatched sofas, and a coffee table made of glass. It suddenly felt awkward to be here, in her space, a guest in his wife’s house, forcing something that was done and over with years ago, even though that’s what he’d been trying to do these last few days. But it was different when they were on neutral territory.
He was relieved when Brooke tipped her chin toward the hallway. “I have a balcony out back. It’s covered, so we shouldn’t get too wet. I’ve been cooped up all day,” she added, in case further explanation was needed.
It wasn’t.
“That sounds great,” he said, grabbing the pizza in one hand and the bottle of wine in the other.
Soon, they were seated at a small wrought-iron table that Brooke explained had come with the apartment.
“Nice perk,” he said gamely. It was better being outside, away from all of her new things, even though some, or most, weren’t very new at all, just new to him.
Brooke bit into a slice of pizza. He was happy to see that New York hadn’t rubbed off on her too much. No folding of the crust was taking place. She was still eating it straight-on, like the Midwestern girl he knew.
And loved.
He swallowed hard, thinking of how familiar this was, even when it was strange at the same time. He didn’t know where she kept her corkscrew or what cabinet held her glasses. He didn’t know how she’d spent every day and night of the past six years, or what her New York apartment had looked like. But he knew her past. He knew her story. And he knew her heart.
Or at least he had. Once.
He tore his gaze from her profile. Grabbed a slice and took a big bite. Drowned his sorrows with a big gulp of wine after that, even if he did prefer beer.
“This is a nice apartment,” he said.
“It’s convenient, but it doesn’t feel like home yet.” She eyed him. “How about you…Are you still…”
“I’m still at the cottage.”
A look of mild surprise took over her face, but she composed herself quickly. “I keep meaning to personalize the apartment more, but the business is taking up a lot of my time.”
“So you think you’ll stay then?”
“In the apartment?” She gave him a smile that seemed almost apologetic. “It needs some more furniture, but that’s the plan.”
“You always liked a plan,” he said, and even though he meant it with nostalgia, there was an edge of resentment to his tone that he was sure she had noticed.
“It’s easier for me to plan than float along. Life passes by otherwise. I didn’t want it to pass me by.”
“Oh, now, I don’t think that would have ever happened.” He gave her a resigned smile that she met in return. “But you don’t miss New York yet?”
