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But still, even now, Elena refuses to accept it for what it is. A man having doubts about committing himself to a woman for life and using a stranger online to feel better. A midlife crisis. A mercurial fallacy built on lies and cold feet.
It's both parts sad and concerning.
Sad that Elena actually thought this was a relationship that could go somewhere, so much so that she left her husband. And concerning that she had ever indulged in it at all.
But I didn't hire her for her morals. It was her supposed managerial skills that got her the job.
Maybe that's where I went wrong with her.
Next time I'm hiring, I'll be sure to ask the candidates what their stance is on extramarital internet affairs.
“Regardless, I'm not faking a relationship with Aiden for publicity, Elena. I don't know how many times I have to say it before you actually listen, but we won't be having this conversation again.”
I press a button on the steering wheel to hang up the phone before she has a chance to answer.
And then I'm pulling the car to a stop in front of the old red barn where Cole and I used to sneak kisses in secret and hide just to get away from it all. Across from it is the farmhouse, with white cladding, dormer windows, a wraparound porch and wooden shutters that have since been painted blue. The Mesarics’s home is the epitome of the American dream. And aside from the fresh paint job on the window shutters, it's the very same as I remember.
Leaving the box of homemade sugar cookies I brought with me on the passenger seat and climbing out of the car, I take a moment to just breathe in the smell of fresh pine and nostalgia that hangs from every particle in the air. My lungs burn with it. Standing out here and sucking in breath after breath of memories, I'm like a recovering alcoholic having a drink after being clean for so long.
I'm standing with my eyes closed and my head tipped back when I'm startled by the screeching of truck tires. A door slams shortly after and a man who I haven't seen for several years storms over to me, his expression one of pure thunder.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Conan growls at me, thick brows pulled tightly together.
He looks staggeringly like Cole, both of them sharing the same wild, dusky hair and dark eyes. But where Conan is stocky and powerfully built, Cole is taller and lither, though no less muscular.
They're both gorgeous in their own right. The entire family is, actually, and while I've always been able to appreciate that, my eyes never strayed away from Cole.
Even now, with tensions as high as they are between Cole and me, I feel nothing for Conan other than a sharp pang of familiarity. My body couldn't give less of a shit how good-looking he is.
“Does Cole know you're here?” he demands, stepping into my space and towering over me.
“No.” I step back. “I'm here to see your mama.”
“She doesn't want to see you.”
“Now ain't that a lie.” The swooping Southern lilt that could only belong to the Mesaric matriarch surprises us both.
We turn to find her watching us from the porch, her hair permed to perfection and a pink gingham apron wrapped around her waist. Padding down the porch steps, she approaches me with her arms outstretched.
“Althea Sparkes, I didn't dream I'd see the day.”
“Hey, Mrs. Mesaric.” I smile and let her wrap me up in one of her warm hugs that she's infamous for around these parts.
“What are you calling me that for, child? It's Mama Belle to you.”
I melt into her hug. It's impossible not to. For as long as I can remember, Belinda Mesaric has been a second mother to everyone in this town, myself included. That's why she insists on being referred to as Mama Belle, except by those she doesn't like.
I can't help but feel relief that she's still wanting me to use it. It means that maybe she doesn't hate me as much as she should for breaking her son's heart the way I did.
“Let me look at you, sweetheart.” Holding the tops of my arms, she steps back and casts her eyes over me. Finally, she tuts and releases me. “My sweet girl, where in the name of our lord Jesus Christ is your coat? You'll catch a death of cold. Especially on those bones. You're far too skinny. Are they not feeding you in Hollywood? Come in and have something to eat. You must, dear. I insist.”
“Oh no, it's okay, really. I just came to give you these cookies I made to thank you for—“
“Did you leave your Southern manners in California with your coat?” she interrupts.
“I just ate before I left is all.” My eyes drop to the ground under the sticky heat of her disapproval.
“Well now, I see fame has changed you, so let me be the one to remind you that when someone offers you their hospitality, child, you accept it with grace.”
