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“You’ve … always … wondered that?”
Her mouth presses firm and she nods. “Yeah. I have.”
“I thought you were happy with Jude?”
“I was,” she says. “He was fun. And charming. And aside from the way things went down, being with him was easy—if that makes sense? When we broke up, deep down, the tiniest part of me was actually relieved.”
I’m relieved hearing that.
“This is going to sound silly,” she continues, “but I always felt like you and I had more in common than Jude and me.”
It doesn’t sound silly at all—it’s the truth.
“But you were so distant,” she adds. “Every once in a while, I felt like you noticed it too. But looking back, I’m pretty sure it was all in my head.” Jovie takes another sip. “Wishful thinking maybe.”
“Wishful thinking?” I heard her perfectly clear—I just want to hear her elaborate.
Her cheeks flush.
“I … I think I … kind of … had a crush on you back then …” Jovie buries her face in her palm before peering at me between her fingers.
“You think you did?” I ask. “Or you did?”
“It was innocent.” She sits straighter. “I never would’ve acted on it. And honestly, this is the first time I’ve ever said those words out loud. But yeah, there was something about you that always made me wonder … anyway, now that I’m a little older, a little wiser, with a few more years behind me, I think it comes down to what you said before.”
“What did I say before?”
“That I have terrible taste in men,” she says. Her eyes widen. “No offense to you personally … you’re just incredibly emotionally unavailable and I think there’s something about that that drives women crazy.”
“Is that so?”
“Take a few of my bestselling books, for example. They all have one thing in common. The hero always has a heart colder than the Arctic ocean and the heroine is always the only one who can melt his icy exterior. He won’t change for anyone except her—and at the very essence of the story, that’s what makes him so swoony.”
“Interesting observation.”
“Anyway.” She waves her hand. “We’ve gotten way off track here. We’re supposed to be talking about you. Let’s go back to square one… have you ever been in love?”
“Once,” I say without hesitation.
Jovie’s brows arch, and her face turns crestfallen for half of a moment.
“Good for you,” she says. “Is she still in the picture?”
I’m looking at her …
“Yes and no.” I top off her glass, then mine. “It’s complicated.”
“Nine times out of ten it isn’t though,” I say. “It’s only complicated because we make it complicated. Love is almost always quite simple. Either it’s there or it’s not.”
“That may be the case for most, but not for all.”
“So who is she?” Jovie asks. “What’s she like? Tell me about the woman who finally melted Stone Atwood’s heart.”
“I’d rather not,” I say. “It’s kind of a sore subject at the moment.”
More like excruciatingly painful. The only woman I’ve ever loved just confessed that she used to wonder about me, used to innocently crush on me …
I never expected life to be fair, but this is downright cruel.
“Ah, I see.” Before she can ask another pointed question, her phone rings from her bag. Digging it out, she frowns at the screen. “It’s Monica. You remember Monica, right?”
“Monica Yarbrough,” I say.
“It’s Monica Wiest now, but yes,” she says. “Hang on. I need to take this … hey, Mon … what’s up?”
Sliding off the bar stool, she walks into the next room—my pitch-black study. I turn my attention to Domino, who is sitting near my feet, staring up at me with shiny dark eyes.
“You want more steak?” I grab a piece from the container on the counter. He lifts a paw before licking the drool from his lips. I toss it to him because I’m not about to almost lose a finger again, and he catches it in his mouth. “Impressive.”
“Sorry about that,” Jovie says when she returns. “She’s going through a thing with her husband right now … I should probably go be with her …”
“Of course.” I hide my disappointment at the fact that I was enjoying her company, as bittersweet as it was.
“Thank you again for taking Domino.” She slides her bag over her shoulder before clasping her hands together. “Seriously. You’re a godsend. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
I nod. It’s not like I had a choice in the matter. Her call was frantic and convincing—and I wanted to see her again.
“I’ll reach out to you after the weekend,” she says when I walk her to the door. “Ida’s supposed to be back early next week. Call or text if you need anything.”
With a quick wave, she dashes down my front steps and climbs into her car.
I return to the kitchen to finish the last of the Malbec.
