Suddenly, my reminders of my own happy childhood feel less like warmth and more like fractures. Shortcomings.
I don’t know how to be that man.
My memories consist of my mom singing off-key carols while burning butter cookies. Of my dad pretending not to mind when the tree leaned sideways in the stand. It was chaotic, imperfect, real. But then it was gone. A car accident and a funeral and nothing steady ever again.
Now all I know is clients, contracts, the next deal. Not homes and holidays and permanence.
Skippy barks at a snowplow rumbling past, then lopes ahead again. I shove my hands into my crumb-filled pockets and follow. The cold stings my face, but it doesn’t clear my head the way I hoped. Yet by the time we circle back toward the bakery, I’ve plastered my easy smile back in place. The one I haven’t used since handing Audrey her dirty chai latte after making sure Skippy wasn’t limping.
The one I reserve for business. For noncommittal responses and vague offerings.
The door jingles as I open, Audrey looking up from sweeping the floor. “Have a good walk?”
Smile in place, I nod.
She nods back before getting to work, letting me know that on the outside I must look steady. Unchanged.
But on the inside, I’m anything but.
PROOFING
Audrey
The scent of fried clams and chowder fogs up my little apartment like a New England perfume. Cartons from Chowder House Rules litter my tiny kitchen table, steam curling in the air until the windows haze.
“Pretty nice of the restaurant to send this over for free.” Jack spears a clam fritter with his fork before I’ve even opened the napkins.
I roll my eyes, unstacking the cartons. “If it was free, I wouldn’t have taken it.” I put the plasticware they packed with the food in a drawer and pull out my silverware, feeling the need to be a bit fancier with Jack here. “Small businesses need to support small businesses.” I grab two bowls from a cabinet for the chowder. “This was a barter.” I gesture to the brown paper bags covering my small island. “I made cornbread whoopie pies for Clam Chowder and Cornbread Appreciation Day, and they made me chowder.”
“Small-town economics. Carbs for carbs.” Jack helps pour the chowder from the carton into the bowls. “I like this system.” His grin is crooked, easy, the kind of grin that feels dangerous because it makes my insides go gooey. “Kind of like the scarf I got for settling the garden gnome dispute.”
I glance at the scarf hanging on my coat rack. The same scarf that’s been there every night this past week and stayed there until morning. While Jack hasn’t given up his hotel room, he also hasn’t been there in some time.
“Yeah, I figured you’d be a fan of the barter system.” I point my spoon at him. “Seeing as I’m paying your lawyer fees in whoopie.”
Jack grin makes the heat off my chowder seem frigid. “Both the treatandthe activity.”
Avoiding his eyes for fear of combusting, I dig into my food like someone who worked a twelve-hour day—because I am. I’ve been waking up earlier than usual, leaving Jack behind in bed as I creep downstairs, trying to make up for the moments during the day when he distracts me.
Oddly, even with the extra hour, I don’t seem to be getting any more done.
Finishing his chowder, Jack wipes his mouth with a napkin and leans back. Casual. Too casual. “Got word from my Maine contact today.”
My stomach tightens.
His expression is as nonchalant as his tone. “The cease and desist went out by certified mail.”
The words hang between us, meant to be good news. He watches me, almost too invested in my reaction.
I nod, forcing a smile. “That’s great.” Last week when we discussed this over the very same meal, it was. Then I’d felt lighter, like someone had finally pulled a sack of flour off my chest. Tonight? Not so much.
His answering frown tells me I’m not as cunning as I’d like. “I’m handling this, Audrey. I promise.” He reaches over, squeezing my hand. “In fact, I also?—”
I lean across the table and kiss him. Quick, decisive, chowder-flavored. “I know. And thank you.” My smile this time, lips still tingling from his, comes easier.
Frown gone, Jack kisses back, warm and sure, until he stops to lick my chin.
“Jack!” I push at his shoulder, laughing even as I wipe the salvia from his tongue off my face with the back of my hand.
