We moved through the house the same way we had before, except now there was a current running through everything, humming underneath every interaction like a live wire someone had forgotten to ground.
When his hand brushed mine reaching for the coffee pot the next morning, we both pulled back like we’d touched something hot. When I left his dessert outside the study that night, I stood at the door a beat longer than I used to, listening for movement on the other side.
Then caught myself doing it when his chair creaked on the other side and I practically sprinted to my room like a woman fleeing a crime scene.
I cooked. I always cooked when my brain was a mess, and right now my brain was a five-alarm disaster. I made a Thai green curry that was so spicy it made my eyes water because I’d dumped in three times the chili paste while thinking about the way his thumb traced my jaw.
Carlos tasted the dish, his entire face turned red, and he stood at the kitchen counter blinking rapidly with tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Mrs. Vale, this is… enthusiastic,” he managed, before draining three glasses of water in succession. I apologized profusely and threw the whole batch out. Carlos said it was fine, really, he just couldn’t feel his tongue anymore and would probably recover by tomorrow.
I made a lemon tart that came out perfect. I brought it to Eleanor, who ate two slices and declared it the best thing she’d had all month.
“What inspired this?” she asked, licking her fork.
“Emotional turmoil,” I said.
Eleanor raised an eyebrow.
“I mean lemons. I was inspired by lemons.”
Eleanor laughed, taking another bite.
I called Vicky that evening. She answered on the second ring like she’d been waiting for this call.
“The court hearing date is set,” she said. “Four weeks.”
“Vic, that’s great. How are you feeling?”
“Terrified. Hopeful. Terrified about being hopeful.” She let out a breath. “The lawyer your money paid for is actually fighting. Like, really fighting. Greg’s team tried to file another motion last week and she shut it down before lunch. I almost cried in her office.”
“You deserve someone fighting for you.”
“I know. I’m getting used to it.” Then her voice dropped. “But that’s not why I’m calling. How’s the marriage?”
I closed my eyes. Vicky knew me as only a sister could. Lying to her was pointless, and attempting it was insulting.
“Are you in love with him?” she asked.
“No.” Too fast, way too fast. The speed of it answered the question better than any words could.
“Okay,” Vicky said. In the tone that meant she heard everything I wasn’t saying and was choosing grace over confrontation. “How’s Sazón?”
We talked about the reconstruction, the menu, the contractor. Normal, safe things that didn’t make my pulse do backflips.
Was I in love? What about Christopher? Had his feelings changed? Had mine?
Then Eloise grabbed the phone.
“AUNTIE MILEY!”
“Hi, baby.”
“Mommy says you married a movie star. Is he handsome? Mommy says he’s very handsome. She showed me a picture. He has blue eyes like a prince.”
“He does have blue eyes.”
“Does he have a horse?”
