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NICA
I open my eyes and look around the dim room. Light leaks through a gap between the curtains over my head. It takes a second to figure out where I am. I travel so much, waking in an unfamiliar room doesn’t bother me. As my eyes adjust, I note the plain wood dresser, the framed prints of alder trees and birds, the woodsy quilt, and memory returns.
I’m in Rotheberg, in Matt Hertzsprung’s house.
I clap a hand over my face. This may not have been my wisest decision. Staying with a smitten fan is number one on the celebrity “don’t do it” list. Yet, here I am, sleeping in his guest room.
I sit up and check my phone on the bedside table. It’s just after six. Birds twitter outside my room—that’s probably what woke me. I can sleep through the usual city noises of garbage trucks and delivery drivers, but send me a flock of birds, and I’m wide awake.
I check my email, but there’s nothing from Dad. I sent him a note last night, but I’m sure Justin is intercepting them. I start a message to Dad’s lawyer, then delete it. Maybe John would be a better tactic. My half-brother and I aren’t exactly friends—he’s thirteen years older than me, and as kids, we only saw each other on special occasions. I think he resented me because I lived with Dad for six years, and his mom divorced Dad when he was a toddler.
But he’s all I’ve got. Except Maddie, of course. Maybe she could find out what’s going on—she and Destiny are the same age. It didn’t seem like they really bonded over the wedding, though.
I shoot off a text to John and another one to Maddie, then head for the bathroom.
When I come out, showered and dressed in a pair of Evergold jeans and a flowered crop top, cooking noises filter up from the kitchen. I take a minute to swipe on some makeup and brush my hair one more time, then check my phone. No response from my siblings. No surprise—we’re all late night people. I tuck the phone into my pocket and pad barefoot down the stairs.
Matt looks up from the sink as I enter the kitchen. “Good morning. How’d you sleep?” He’s wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his strong forearms. A scar runs down the back of his left arm, leaving a white cut through his chestnut arm hair. He shakes a colander of strawberries over the sink, then sets it on a plate.
“Really good. Until the birds decided it was time for me to get up.” I pull a stool away from the bar and slide on.
“Yeah, they’re noisy buggers this time of year. Coffee? Or do you prefer tea? Please don’t tell me you want some kind of green smoothie.” He does a dramatic shudder.
I smirk. “I do coffee and green smoothies. They aren’t mutually exclusive.”
Before I can move, he spins to grab a coffee pot and pours a cup. “Cream? Sugar?”
I hold up a hand. “Black, thanks.” Our fingers touch as I take the mug, and a little electric zing courses through my arm. Cool it, Nica. Too many complications, and you need a friend, not a fling. Focus.
“I washed some strawberries and have some pancakes in the freezer. I would make some fresh, but I have to get to work.” He glances at his watch—an old fashioned one with an analogue dial.
“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t want to disrupt your schedule. You don’t need to make me breakfast.” I lift the mug. “This is all I need to get rolling.”
“Don’t be silly. The strawberries are clean, and the pancakes only take a few seconds to heat up—unless you’re one of those low-carb people?”
Normally I am. But normally, my dad is fine, and I haven’t been kicked out of his house. “I’m all in on carbs today. But I can make my own breakfast. You have things to do.”
He pulls a pair of plates from the cupboard and sets them on the counter. “I don’t work until eight, and it’s only a fifteen-minute commute.” He pulls a plastic bag from the freezer and deposits four small pancakes on each plate, then puts one in the microwave. “They’re better fresh, but I don’t have that much time. Do you want syrup? Whipped cream?”
“Whipped cream?” I repeat.
“Done.” He whirls to the fridge.
“No, you don’t—”
He swings around with a can of spray cream in his hand. “Don’t worry, it’s the real stuff. Eva likes it on her waffles, and she’ll be home next week.”
Right, the daughter. It’s hard to remember this man is old enough to have a college-aged daughter. “How long has it been just you and Eva?”
While he reheats the pancakes and slices the strawberries, he tells me about his ex-wife and kid. He clearly loves Eva and doesn’t seem too bitter about the divorce. Sure, it’s been two years, but for someone like Matt, that doesn’t seem like a long time to get over a twenty-year relationship.
In my world, he’d have moved on long ago.
We eat our breakfast in relative silence, then I help him load the plates and silverware into the dishwasher. He closes it then pours another cup of coffee. “What’s your plan for today?”
I turn my mug around in my hands, watching the little bit of coffee slosh in the bottom. “I texted my brother and sister but haven’t heard anything from them. I figure I’ll go back out to the Ranch and try my dad again. Did your friend say how he looks?”
He shakes his head. “Do you want to talk to her?”
