I told her. Eric walking in.Long time.The dinner we had together. Him knowing about the dinner I had with Jasper. Himknowing where I was, which meant he had been keeping track. His eyes dropping to my mouth in that smarmy, icky way.You look different today.The nod at the end, that settled, satisfied freaking creeptastic nod. Me telling him not to come back unless he was buying a book.
Paige listened without interrupting once. Her jaw tightened at the part about his eyes. Her expression went flat and cold when I said he had known where I was. When I finished, she was quiet for a moment, turning it over, and I watched her work through it the way I had watched her work through things our whole lives—methodically, without panic, arriving at the place where she could be useful.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay. I need to tell you something.”
I waited.
“When you went out with him, I didn’t think much of it. You told me after that you weren’t feeling it, and I let it go. And then he started showing up places—the Coffee Cabin, Mystery Night, here. The first time I heard about it, I got a bad feeling. The second time, I got a worse one.” She paused. “I should have said something sooner. I kept telling myself I’d keep an eye on the situation, I dropped the ball, I wasn’t worried enough, and I’m sorry for that.”
“Paige—”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to grovel. I’m just going to say it, and we’re going to move on.” She looked at me steadily. “There’s one more thing. I trust Jasper. I want you to know that. I’ve had enough conversations with him to know that he sees what’s happening with Eric, and he is not going to let it go. You haven’t been walking around this town alone, even when it felt like you were.”
Surprise sent my eyebrows up. “Okay.”
“Okay.” She sat back. “I’m staying tonight. Hunter has the kids. I am on your couch, and we are going to sit, drink wine,eat snacks, and talk about everything, and I am informing you of these plans, not asking you.”
I almost smiled. “Okay.”
“Good. Now. Jasper is going to call you later, right?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “You’re going to tell him you had a long day and you’re tired. You are not going to tell him about Eric tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are currently in a state I am going to describe askissed stupid,and people in that state should not be having serious conversations over the phone. You’re also freaked out, and a man like Jasper will take action for that. We’re not there yet.”
“Am I that obvious?”
“To me? Always.” She stood up and pulled me up after her. “Let’s go upstairs.”
Wentworth had climbed Paige the moment she sat down. Knightley wound around my ankles. Darcy watched from the back of the couch, and then—in an act of grace I could not have predicted—jumped down and pressed his head once against Paige’s shin.
Paige looked down at her wine glass, genuinely moved. “Aww, Darcy.”
“Stamp of approval. Finally.”
Paige laughed and tucked her feet further under her on the couch. I’d poured us each a glass of wine and quickly put together a tray of whatever I could find—cheese, crackers, some olives I’d been meaning to use—and now we were settled into the amber quiet of the late afternoon, the light coming through the windows soft and golden, and the cats distributed around us with their usual authority.
I told her about the dinner. About The Hearthstone, the corner booth, the way the room had felt completely differentfrom the last time I’d been there, like the space had been returned to me and made into something new. About Jasper arriving at my door with the book wrapped in brown paper and kitchen twine.
“Eric took you to The Hearthstone,” she said flatly.
“He did.”
“And then Jasper took you to The Hearthstone.”
“He didn’t know. And then when we pulled up, and I told him, he asked if I wanted to go somewhere else, and I said no, I was reclaiming it.” I took a sip of wine. “And I did.”
Paige looked at me for a moment. “Good,” she said. “That’s exactly right.” She shook her head once, filing Eric away somewhere, and moved on. “Tell me about the rest of it.”
So I did. Paige listened—fully, without interrupting, her wine glass held loosely in both hands. When I finished, she was quiet for a moment, looking at me with an expression that was warm and careful at the same time.
“You’re different when you talk about him,” she said. “I don’t mean that in the way people usually mean it. I mean you’re more—” she paused, choosing it carefully, “—present. Like you’re actually inside your own life instead of managing it from a slight distance.”
I looked at my wine. “Is that what I usually do?”
“Sometimes,” she said, without judgment. “Not with us. But with other things. Other people.” She tilted her head. “He doesn’t make you feel like you have to manage anything, does he?”
It wasn’t a question. I answered it anyway. “No,” I said quietly. “He doesn’t.”
