Page 20 of Shattered Dreams
She shoots me a look. "Roman has been at your door every day this week. He's called. Sent flowers. He still wants you."
But does that mean he deserves me?
We pull up outside Scott and Amanda's. Their golden retriever bounds out barking, tail wagging, followed by?—
"Poppy!" I barely make it out of the car before I'm running.
“Mommy! I missed you!” She launches into my arms, sticky and perfect. She smells like sunshine and finger paint and childhood. But those green eyes? They're Roman's. A cruel, perfect copy, and for a second, I don't know if it makes me ache or want to scream.
"I missed you too, baby. Have you been painting?"
She nods wildly. "We made a castle! I used glitter!"
Scott leans on the porch, grinning. "You look better than you did the last time I saw you."
"Was I drinking vodka from the bottle?" I mutter as Amanda flies past him to hug me.
Scott gives Aunt Jane a panicked look. "Vodka from the bottle?"
Poppy grabs my hand. "Come see what we made!"
I follow her into the kitchen?—
And freeze.
A familiar figure stands by the counter, and my breath catches. Something shifts in my chest—surprise, relief, and something I can't name.
"Surprise, Mommy!" Poppy squeals.
Kieron stands in the corner, hands in his pockets, his eyes softening when they meet mine.
"Hey, you."
8
AVA
Kieron Ashford.
Standing there with paint smudged all over his hands from whatever art project he'd been doing with Poppy.
My best friend from university, the one who made lectures bearable and essays less soul-crushing. We bonded over our shared love of literature and spent too many late nights cramming together. We were inseparable—the kind of friendship that made everyone assume there was more to it. He moved back to England after graduation to pursue writing. Our friendship survived the distance, though his visits became fewer as both our careers took off.
But Kieron came back for our wedding. He showed up with a signed first edition, then returned to England. He built his life there, writing bestselling novels that took off globally. He still has that British accent that makes everything sound smarter, sending me postcards from his travels and limited-edition copies of his books. Poppy adores him—probably because he tells stories better than anyone, spinning tales like magic just for her on his rare visits.
He doesn't move from his spot against the wall, gesturing to his hands with a rueful smile.
I didn’t realize how much I missed him until this exact moment.
"Ah, Ava. I'd hug you, but unless you want fat thumbprints on your shirt, I better hold off," he says, his voice carrying for Poppy's benefit more than mine.
I don't care. I don't care about anything except the fact that he'shere. My feet move before my brain catches up, and suddenly I'm crossing the kitchen in a blur, tears already streaming down my face. I crash into him, wrapping my arms around his middle, burying my face against his chest.
"You're here," I manage, my voice breaking. "You're actually here." Relief claws at my throat like it might drag me to my knees.
His arms fold around me after a moment of surprise, one hand hovering carefully away from my clothes, the other pressing firmly against my back.
"Hey," he murmurs against my hair, voice soft. "It's okay. I've got you."
