Page 7 of Sweet Redemption

You want Italian, go to Nonna’s.

Something sweet? Sweet Temptations has you covered.

The best wine? That’s easy. Cherry Creek Vineyards is steps away from my house.

Burgers and fries is a little harder. Liv swears by West End, but I prefer The Busy Bee’s burgers. Okay, no, I don’t. I prefer their chocolate shakes and occasionally, their Boston cream pie. And today feels like a chocolate shake kind of day. Liv can suck it.

The Busy Bee it is.

“Hey, Serena,” the familiar hostess greets me. “Your order should be up soon. The kitchen’s a little backed up tonight. If you want to take a seat at the counter, it shouldn’t be too long.”

“Thank you.” I force a smile on autopilot, in absolutely no shape to be in a room full of people. Not when my head and my heart both hurt like hell. Guilt tugs at me for the way I talked to Dad, even if I don’t regret a single thing I said.

“Hey, Serena.” The line cook winks, smiling from the open window behind the counter as I take a seat and pull out my phone. “It’ll just be a few minutes.”

A cup of steaming raspberry tea is pushed my way, and I murmur my thanks.

Maybe I should be concerned about how much takeout we eat since everyone in the place knows us, but it’s Kroydon Hills. Everybody knows everybody, and unfortunately for us, they’re all up in each other’s business as much as possible. It’s the burden of living in a small town. The pros definitely outweigh the cons, but some days, I wish I could tell those cons to kiss my ass.

Like right now, when my chest threatens to crack open and spit my broken heart out on the dirty tile floor at my feet.

Because walking toward me is the only man to ever eviscerate that traitorous organ.

The only man who ever had my heart.

The one who got married six months after we broke up.

Six months after he asked me to marry him.

And he’s holding the little boy he and his wife had . . . less than six months later.

The mug in my hand slips through my fingers as the room around me closes in, and I forget how to breathe. A concrete block presses against my chest, weighing my lungs down as they squeeze tighter with panic clawing its dagger-tipped claws beneath my ribs.

No . . .

Not now.

Not here.

Please . . . I close my eyes and breathe in through my nose, sucking in any oxygen I can manage as the room tilts and my pulse explodes in my ears. The noisy café suddenly becomes deafening. Silverware drags against plates like nails on a chalkboard. Chairs scrape. People talk. Someone coughs. A baby laughs.

Hendrix’s baby.

Oh God . . .

He’s smiling.

Both of them are.

Dark hair like he hasn’t seen the sun all summer.

Broad shoulders.

That stupid smile . . . the one that could convince me to do anything.

Almost anything.

The tips of my fingers tingle as numbness sets in, and my heart threatens to race so rapidly, it sprints to an imaginary finish line and explodes in my chest like an overinflated balloon.