Page 51 of Tough Love

I screw the railing to the post and put the drill down. “Okay, Howard. What’s eating you?”

She startles as if I jerked her from deep thoughts. “Nothing, what d’you mean?”

“You have been too quiet all day. Is it last night? This morning?”

She drops her eyes. Her phone buzzes in her back pocket. Not looking at me, she studies the vista.

“You gonna answer that?”

“No,” she whispers.

“Addy, what’s going on? If it’s about this morning, we can forget it, okay? Put it down to both of us needing to blow off some steam.”

Her head snaps back. “Is that what it was to you?”

“I—”

Her phone rings. She ignores it. I open my mouth to tell her that of course it wasn’t. It never has been with her. But I take too long and hurt fills her eyes. She plucks the phone from her back pocket and walks down the steps and away from the house.

Fuck.

“Hey, I thought I asked you not to call anymore.” She’s talking quietly, but I can hear the tension in her voice. “No, donotdo that. Please.”

I lean on the post and fold my arms over my chest, well aware that I shouldn’t be eavesdropping. But this feels important, and I don’t want her to be alone.

“Goodbye, Adam.” She hangs up and stands with her hand over her face for a moment. Her ex. The fucking asshole knows why she moved hundreds of miles away. Not letting her move on is a dick move.

The overwhelming urge to pummel this guy into the ground turns the blood in my veins to lava. If he shows his face here, his breaths will be numbered.

When Addy turns back to the house, I don’t move from the post. She walks up the stairs and stops at the top step. “You know, it’s rude to listen to other people’s conversations, Rawlins.”

“I’m aware,” I say, but my voice is raw, and I can’t shake the unease. When she walks past me and into the house, I know I should apologize. I walk in after her but come to an abrupt halt. She has designed an enormous open-plan kitchen for me with a simple piece of chalk.

The back wall is lined with cupboards, a massive stove-oven combo, and the wide fridge exactly where I had envisioned it. To the left is a pantry, and in front of it all is a massive island counter with an impressive double sink. She has even drawn the arched tap ware and barstools.

“Howard, this is brilliant.”

“Thanks. It’s what I would want if I was living here.”

The air leaves my lungs.

She offers a shy smile and starts explaining the storage and types of appliances. All I can do is listen and nod, the stone that has grown in my throat turning me incoherent.

“Do you like it? I can change anything you think is not okay.”

“It’s—” I swallow and run a hand behind my neck. “Awesome, Howard. It suits the house.”

“Yeah?”

“How did you learn so much about kitchens?”

“My mom is a professional chef. So, kitchen talk has been in my life for as long as I can remember.”

“She works in one of those fancy New York City restaurants, doesn’t she?”

“Yup.”

We arrive at an awkward silence, and I try again. “Addy, about last night?—”

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