Page 8 of Wicked Games

“Did you look me up?” She doesn’t say it accusingly, more like she’s amused I would do such a thing.

“No. My business partner likes your work. She said if she would’ve known I was going to meet you, she would have asked if you’d sign her book.”

“That’s sweet. I have bookplates around here somewhere. I can sign one and give it to you to pass on to her.”

“She’d appreciate that.”

“Sure. Anyway, no. I don’t make much, don’t make hardly anything, really. It’s why people said my husband and I wouldn’t last. They thought he was more my benefactor, you know? That we were in a relationship because he wanted to give me a chance to grow in my work. I think he loved me, but you never really know, do you? He’s twenty years older than I am, and when he asked me to have dinner, I just felt lucky he chose me.”

“How’d you meet? And why did you feel lucky? Did he have a selection?”

Her lips quirk. “You could say. He was my university professor. He had over a hundred of us to choose from.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh. But my sister said if it’s love, it’s love.”

More tears trickle down her cheeks, and I wonder if she still loves the guy and if she misses him.

“That’s usually how it works. You don’t get much choice in the matter,” I say, watching the slight lift of her breasts as she breathes. My cock twitches.

“Unfortunately for us.”

Our conversation dies after that, and we finish our salads without speaking. But it’s pleasant, the not needing to talk, and I start to relax. Not just in the moment, but around her in general. She’s not going to force me into idle chitchat, okay to be inside her own head, even when there’s someone around. It’s nice to keep company with someone who doesn’t ask anything of you because she understands you.

And I know she does. Even after this short hour together, she knows me better than anyone ever could. Not after what happened.

I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t want to be in her way, either. I wasn’t exactly an invited guest. “I should get back, but thanks for dinner.”

“Anytime,” she says, and her voice is sincere.

I’m grateful she means it.

I slide off my stool and pick up my plate to put it in the sink, but she says, “Don’t worry about it. I can get it.”

“Thanks.” I step toward the sliding glass door. I want to tell her that she can call me if she needs anything or maybe we can see each other again some time, but she doesn’t have my number, I didn’t offer it, and saying that I want to see her again sounds dumb. I’m her next-door neighbor. Of course I’m going to see her again. “Have a nice evening,” I finish lamely.

“You too.”

She leaves it at that, and feeling slightly lost and resentful she let me go so easily, I step out onto her patio and slide the door closed behind me.

I’m only halfway across her yard and I miss her already.

CHAPTER FOUR

Avery

This isn’t a good idea. Definitely not a good idea. The way my heart started to pound when he looked at me, very bad idea. Falling in love is not what I had in mind this summer. Or this year, or maybe ever. I have to figure out what I want out of life and out of my career. My writing has been tied to Darren, to our marriage and our issues, for fifteen years. The last thing I need is to jump into a relationship before I know who I am alone. If I can find any consolation at all, it’s that Seth felt the same. Staring at me while I stared at him. He knows we’re on the same emotional plane, and that’s scarier than hell. When you look at someone and see yourself.

Fuck.

I didn’t offer him anything to drink. He’s going to think something’s wrong with me. Didn’t even offer to open the wine he brought over, though, if he was smart, he’d stop drinking. Won’t, if he’s already been to the bar to buy a stash of booze, but maybe he’ll ease up the longer he’s here. I never wanted to get drunk, just laid in bed and cried after I got the call Hattie’s body was found in an alley and could I come identify her since our parents were in California and Bill wasn’t answering his phone.

Darren was there, and he pushed me into a shower a couple times a week and made sure I ate. Looking back, he probably just wanted to get me on my feet so he could leave. I was functioning, if you could call it that, when he said he’d gotten his teaching assistant pregnant and wanted to be there and experience things with her. She was tired and nervous, like that was more important than my grief, and she needed him.

I clean up the kitchen, putting our plates in the dishwasher and the salad dressing in the fridge. I gave him the parmesan cheese, but he didn’t use it. I shove that and the croutons and bacon bits where they belong and wipe down the island.

I didn’t offer him any, but now I uncork the wine and pour myself a glass. I sip and savor the apple and pear notes. It’s good, a light, summery wine, and I carry it to the kitchen table where my laptop still is.