Page 27 of Savage Romance
Zoe let out an unhappy sound resembling that of a deflating balloon. And don’t I feel as weak and pathetic as one? “The boss is the reason I am leaving.”
“He is? You are?” Tilting her head in a side-to-side rhythm, Conchita closed her mouth. After pulling in and releasing a deep breath, she tried again, “Did the boss fire you? Why? Can’t he see you’re perfect for us?”
Zoe’s eyes burned and she shook her head. “No, I’m not. I—I haven’t been forthcoming with my husband, and—and he found out.”
“So.” Conchita’s hands went to her hips. “You had a lover’s quarrel? That’s all? Aren’t you both overreacting a bit?” She gave Zoe a stern glare. “Talk with him!”
Zoe closed her eyes and pulled in air through her nose. “Talking isn’t going to fix anything. It’s too late.”
“That is possible, sí. But you never know unless you try.”
“No, Conchita.” Zoe’s shoulders slumped, and she shook her head. “You should have seen his face. He never wants to see or talk to me again.”
“Hmm.” The housekeeper narrowed her eyes. “Does this mean you’re homeless and jobless now?”
Zoe swallowed and, not trusting her voice, she nodded.
“Do you need help? Money perhaps?”
Open-mouthed, Zoe stared at the woman.
“Don’t look so surprised.” Conchita chuckled. “I remember how it was to come to America with nothing other than the clothes on my back. If not for the help I received then, I might not have survived. I think it’s called paying it forward, sí?”
A little bit shellshocked, Zoe lowered herself on the rickety chair and leaned her elbows on the table. After Conchita had taken her under her motherly wings, the events had passed in a blur.
Zoe now held the key to a bland but clean apartment, a small box with personal belongings, and a bag of groceries. Other than those few meager possessions, she was husbandless, jobless, and hopeless.
Yes, she should have talked about Michael earlier, but how should she have done that? Can you pass me the potatoes, oh and hey, by the way, my brother committed suicide, and I think you and Byron Nolan have something to do with his death. How’s your steak? Right!
Or during her talk with Charlotte. Oh, so my brother was part of some sick game your husband played. By the way, did you or your husband have anything to do with Michael’s death?
Nope. Even so, Zoe had been too sick to talk with Charlotte after the other woman revealed that nasty tidbit about Michael.
Dropping her aching head on her hands, Zoe gave in to the heaviness in her body.
Before the New Year’s Eve party, Zoe’s feelings toward her brother and her memories about him and his personality had already been shifting. After Charlotte’s shocking revelation, any thought of revenge had left Zoe’s system.
“So, girl, what’s next?” Zoe spoke in the quiet night and tried to muster some courage. Time to challenge her thoughts.
Straightening in her chair, she firmed her chin. “First, the situation isn’t hopeless. Didn’t Edgar Allan Poe say, ‘Even in the grave, all is not lost?’ I’m not dead, and I’m not giving up.”
She dropped the key on the table and rose to get some dinner started. A knot formed in her stomach. Okay, not that I’m particularly hungry. But she needed sustenance. Ramen noodles would go down, right?
Right. Now, what were those other thoughts she wanted to challenge? Husbandless. She didn’t want to think about Ben. A tightness constricted her chest, and she abandoned that dreaded topic for her unemployment issue.
Tomorrow she would start job hunting. This apartment was cheap but paying for Michael’s funeral had created a considerable dent in her savings. Also, she wanted to pay Ben back whatever he’d reimbursed for Michael’s gambling debt. Besides, a job will keep my hands busy and my mind occupied.
Chapter Twenty
With a sound of disgust, Ben poured the cup of coffee he’d made moments ago down the drain. Why he made Zoe’s coffee in the first place didn’t make any sense to him, but little of his actions did these past few days.
He flexed the hand he’d used to punch a hole in his friends’ living room wall. Although the scabs had healed by now, the skin stretched painfully. He welcomed the burn in his knuckles like something he deserved. God damn it, what have I done?
Dropping his forehead against the top cupboards, he surrendered to the myriad of emotions running through his body.
He banged his head twice. “Charlotte was right. I should have—at least—listened to Zoe.”
He might have had the right to be upset with her, but he should have asked for an explanation.
