Page 27 of The Story Between Us

Which meant she’d be back. Tomorrow, probably. Maybe the day after. She’d knock on his door, and he’d have to do this again, face her again, experience all of this again.

And somewhere underneath the panic and the shame and the exhaustion, something else stirred. Something small and inconvenient. Something that had given way when she’d smiled at him, and hadn’t quite closed back up.

The way she’d said his name.

Trouble had arrived. So much trouble.

He looked down at the dogs.

Huck’s tail thumped weakly against the floor. Finn was still giving him those worried eyes, ears drooped, clearly concerned about the emotional stability of his primary food source.

“Betrayers,” Nate said.

His voice cracked on it. Just slightly.

The dogs didn’t argue.

Seven

The sound of Nate Rivers’s door closing would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Livvie made it approximately forty feet down his driveway before she had to stop the car. Which proved unfortunate, because forty feet down his driveway meant she’d parked in front of the coral-pink cottage next door—her aunt’s cottage—having a breakdown in full view of anyone who happened to glance out a window.

Including, apparently, her aunt.

The front door opened. Aunt Lila stood on the porch in loose linen pants and a flowing tunic the color of autumn leaves, her silver hair tumbling past her shoulders, her expression the particular blend of concern and amusement she’d been perfecting since Livvie turned sixteen.

“Are you going to sit in that car all day, or are you coming inside?”

Livvie turned off the engine. Didn’t move.

Lila crossed her arms. “I have hot cider. I have chocolate. I have very strong opinions about that man next door. Pick your poison.”

“It’s three in the afternoon.”

“And your point?”

Livvie went inside.

The cottage wrapped around her like it always had—mismatched furniture, books stacked on every surface, art covering every wall. A fat orange cat looked up from a velvet armchair, assessed her with naked disdain, and returned to sleep.

“That’s Mr. Darcy,” Lila said, already heading toward the kitchen. “He’s new. He hates everyone. You’ll get along great.”

The kitchen hit her like a time machine. Coral-pink cabinets. Yellow countertops. Turquoise walls and pine ceiling beams and a vintage stove that had been old when Livvie turned thirteen. The whole room looked like a 1950s diner had collided with a sunset, and somehow it worked.

“Sit.” Lila pointed at the pine table with its mismatched chairs. “Talk. You can use short words if you’d like.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Too bad. You’re in my kitchen.” Lila already stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled like cinnamon and apples. “Start from the beginning. Or the middle. I’ll catch up.”

Here went nothing. She told her about the meeting. About Richard. About flying to Minnesota with the brilliant plan to save Nate Rivers from himself because his book had once saved her. About standing on his porch and telling him chapter twelve had changed her life.

“And then?”

“And then he let me in. Gave me terrible coffee. And twenty minutes later, he thanked me for stopping by.” She heard her voice go flat. “Like I’d shown up selling Girl Scout cookies.”

Lila set a mug of cider in front of her—proper cider, with a cinnamon stick and everything—and settled into the chair across from her.