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“Tell me about the book, Christy, let’s discuss it.”
Christy eyed the slim book that had been taking up space on a side table for weeks. The cover reminded her that it had won a major literary award, but each time Christy sat down to read it she never made it past the second chapter. She already knew that the main character died. The people were horrible and they made horrible choices. Which meant the ending could only be one thing—horrible. Why was it that book
s deemed worthy of the book group were always depressing? What was good about a book that made you want to slit your own throat?
She couldn’t bring herself to read it, which meant she’d have to read some reviews on the internet if she had any hope of sounding intelligent and engaged.
What would I have done differently if I’d been in the same situation? Everything!
She glanced out of the window into the darkness. Still no Seb.
By the time she finally heard the sound of his car in the drive the casserole was cold and congealed.
She smoothed her hair, closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath.
She’d pretend nothing was wrong. It would be fine. And maybe she was imagining things, anyway, and the whole thing would go away. There was probably a simple explanation.
When he opened the front door she was ready and waiting. She even managed a smile. “You’re so late. I was worried. Did your meetings overrun? You must be exhausted.”
She hovered, heart aching, mind racing.
“Yes. Sorry.” He hung up his coat. Kissed her briefly. “Freezing out there.”
“Yes. They’re saying it might even snow. Can you believe that?”
The weather was always a safe, neutral topic. A lifeboat to cling to in stormy seas.
She walked through to the kitchen. Seb followed, forgot to duck, and smacked his head on the low doorway.
“Damn it—this house hates me. Why didn’t the guy who built it make the doors higher?” He rubbed his forehead and glared at the doorway.
“He probably wasn’t as tall as you.”
For once it felt as if she and the cottage were on the same side. She felt hurt, betrayed, and more than a little angry with him for proving Alix right.
“I know I should have called you, but—”
“I don’t expect you to call. I know how busy you are.” She wanted to move away from the subject. “Do you want a drink? Wine?”
“Is there beer?”
“Beer? I don’t... Yes, I think so...”
She jerked open the fridge door so violently everything inside rattled. She’d chilled a Sauvignon Blanc, but he wanted beer. They always drank wine. Why did he suddenly want beer? Was it the influence of another woman?
She rummaged past vegetables and two neatly stacked containers of food for Holly and found a bottle of beer left by Zac. “Here—” She handed it to him and watched as he snapped off the top and drank, not even bothering with a glass.
“Thanks.” He lowered the bottle. “Holly asleep?”
“Yes. She tried to stay awake for you.”
He pulled a face. “I hate missing storytime.”
Does Mandy know you have a daughter waiting for you to kiss her goodnight?
“Dinner is spoiled, but there’s some soup in the fridge that I can heat up.”
“No need.” He yanked at his tie and undid his top button. “I grabbed something before I jumped on the train.”
