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Trina accepts the coffee that Sven, our barista, hands her over the counter and takes a deep breath as she cups it close to her face. She shakes her head. “Are you sure you’re okay with Mom and me moving into your house? You want to stay in the rental you’re in with Blake and Allie?”
I shrug. “It makes sense, doesn’t it?”
My house caught fire three months ago. The damage was localized, but I still had to move to a rental with my teenage daughter, Allie. That was right around the time I met Blake…and right around the time he decided he wanted to stay in town. Now we’re living in a small, two-bedroom rental while the design of the new house on the coast gets finalized. Blake bought the property and told me he was staying, and he’d wait however long it took for me to realize we belonged together.
Swoon.
Thankfully, I came to my senses pretty quickly. I keep thinking Blake is going to wake up and realize he’s happier in his swanky Beverly Hills mansion, but he keeps waking up and telling me that Heart’s Cove feels like the only home he’s ever had.
It’s the fastest relationship I’ve ever been in, but it feels like I’ve known him my whole life. It feels right.
So Trina, her kids, and our mother will move into my old house when the repairs are done. I’m ready to move on, and I know my sister needs some stability right now. I’m happy to give it to her.
“Have you heard from the lawyer?” I ask.
Trina sips her coffee and nods. “This morning. Kevin signed.”
I arch my brows. “It’s all done? After all his talk about never signing divorce papers?”
Trina leans a hip against the counter and plays with the edge of her cup with her thumb. “I thought he was going to take his time. Drag it out. He kept complaining about giving me any money even though we had two kids together and he was the main breadwinner ever since his paintings took off.”
“But you supported him with two jobs for the first four years of your relationship.” I frown. “His paintings didn’t even sell until a couple of years ago. You were the one who introduced him to the gallery manager who gave him his first big show.”
Trina grimaces. “I don’t know if that’s exactly how Kevin remembers it. He’s made a few speeches about bootstraps.”
I roll my eyes. “He would never have been successful without you. You did his bookkeeping for years. You bought all his supplies until he could support himself. That asshole owes you.”
“That’s what my lawyer says,” Trina replies. “That’s probably why Kevin decided to sign the papers. I haven’t asked for anything excessive. Just child support and a fair settlement. He gets to keep the house, the cars, everything. And he was all too willing to sign off on me moving here with the kids. It’s like he wanted us out of his hair, which I guess worked out for me.”
My brows lower and I glance over at Blake. We don’t have kids together, but I can’t imagine him doing that. Cheating on me. Kicking me out of the house…or letting me leave without even trying to fix it.
But Kevin isn’t Blake, and maybe this is for the best.
My sister lets out a heavy sigh. “It’s fine. I’m glad it’s done. I don’t want to turn bitter. Honestly, with the kids and the move and starting at a new school and everything, I’m glad he signed the papers. I just want this to be over.”
“Oh, Trina.” I reach across the counter and squeeze her hand.
Her eyes drift to our mother, who’s still safely on the other side of the café and unable to lay into the thousand and one questions I’m sure she has for Trina. Which reminds me—
“What’s up with the motorcycle man?”
She jumps. “Huh?”
“Katrina.” I cross my arms and pop a brow.
“What?” is her angelic response.
“You rode in here on a Harley so loud it made the windows shake, then looked at the hot, leather-clad rider like he just made your whole life. Then he looked at you like you were the hottest little thing he’d ever seen.You did that. My stylish, high-maintenance sister was riding a motorcycle.”
“High maintenance?” Her voice squeaks. “Who are you calling high maintenance?” She uses a manicured hand to flick her perfectly styled hair over her shoulder. Even after a motorcycle ride, her hair looks like she just walked off a photo shoot.
My sister is many things…and high maintenance is definitely one of them.
I don’t mean it as a bad thing. It’s actually one of the things I admire most about her. She’s unapologetically girly. She takes care of herself—always has. She’s always loved clothing and fashion and pampering. Look at this morning! Mom told me she was going to pick up the car, and she’s standing in front of me in figure-hugging jeans, a simple white tank top, and enough silver bangles that she sounds like a wind chime when she sips her coffee. She’s wearing smudged eyeliner, mascara, and a bit of blush across her cheeks. She looks edgy and cool and totally not like a hungover person doing the walk of shame to their car in the pub parking lot.
No wonder Mr. Motorcycle looked like he wanted to throw her over his shoulder and take her to his lair.
I grin at her outrage. “You know you’re not low maintenance, Trina.”
