Page 28 of Room for Us

“You thought I was a trophy wife?” she asks, a blond brow arched.

I wince, the rebuke landing squarely. It’s no secret that’s what I was—or rather, what Chris wanted me to be. But years of repeated polishing revealed that my shiny varnish was only skin-deep.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Celeste shrugs, looking away for a moment. “Life doesn’t always turn out how you think it will, does it?”

“Nope. It doesn’t.”

Her gaze veers back to mine. We share a moment of silent acknowledgment. Neither of us is where we imagined we’d be.

“Remember Jeremy?”

Her high school boyfriend. Star athlete. Homecoming and Prom King to Celeste’s Queen. All around nice guy. One of the good ones.

I nod, a bad feeling spooling in my gut. Her eyes flicker down, but not before I see the haunted look in them.

“We got married after graduation. A few months later, he joined the Army for the GI bill.” She sighs. “Anyway, he died in Afghanistan five months into his second tour. Right before he left, we found out I was pregnant.”

The breath leaves my lungs. My heart screams. “I’m so sorry, Celeste.”

She nods, smiling sadly. “Thanks. Anyway, I’ve been single-mom’ing it since then. Main Street Flowers isn’t lucrative enough to pay my bills, and I sure as hell don’t want to live with my parents. So here I am, working for the competition. Mom and Dad are bummed, but they understand that Damien comes first for me.”

I swallow the acid of regret. “I was such an asshole, brushing you off in the grocery store like that. I’m sorry.”

She waves a hand. “It’s no big deal.”

“I made you cry, Celeste!”

She laughs, this time loudly. “Oh, that wasn’t you. Ever since I had a kid, my PMS is insane. I cry at everything. I think that night I cried over a commercial. Oh, and I cried because I overcooked the pasta. Poor Damien, right?”

I touch her arm. “No. Lucky Damien. And lucky you. He seems like a great kid.”

“Thanks. That means a lot.” She smiles, a hint of playfulness in her blue eyes. “Does this mean we’re friends now?”

I laugh. “I guess that depends on whether or not you can help me re-beautify Rose House’s landscape.”

Her expression morphs to excitement. “Oh my gosh, yes! I’ve been begging Barb for years to let me revamp the front. I’d love, love, love to. I’ll even help you plant everything for free on my days off.” She winks. “Because we’re friends.”

“Deal. I’d like to get started as soon as possible. Do you have any time this weekend? ”

“I’m off Saturday. Mind if I bring the kid? Free labor.”

I laugh. “Sounds good. I’ll bribe Zander with pizza and we’ll put the boys to work.”

“Perfect.”

I leave the nursery two hours later with a car full of flowers, seeds, and bulbs, as well as fertilizer, mulch, the unexpected gift of a light heart.

18

The sound of a car pulling up the driveway distracts me from the four paragraphs of crap I’ve managed so far today. Moving to the window, I part the curtains and watch Zoey Kemper emerge. My gaze trips over her messy hair, loose white T-shirt, and obscenely bright, yellow cardigan, before finally landing on her legs. She’s wearing cutoff jean shorts. Feeling like a leech but not caring, I spend thirty seconds having all sorts of fantasies about those legs wrapped around my hips, my head, and spread eagled under my hands.

She looks so damn wholesome. Her face clear and makeup-free, her breasts naturally large but not cartoonish. She’s a walking Girl Next Door wet dream. I’m at least honest enough with myself to know that’s part of her draw.

A few memories of last night have come back, too, namely of her helping me to the couch and gently taking off my shoes. As well as one disturbingly intimate one of her hand brushing across my forehead, a comforting touch, a reassurance, almost like a mother would provide for an ailing child.

But mostly, my fascination stems from what she hides beneath that neutral smile. She’s an imperfect mirror for what I’m trying, and failing, to achieve here—the scraping away of years of backed-up mental bullshit as I try to write an honest, good book.

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