Page 137 of A Lucky Shot

“And let’s be grateful for that,” Jill finished. “But now, I’m just glad you figured it out.”

Cass nodded. It took years, wasted time, a date with a sweetheart, and one broken heart, but she got there.

Jill focussed her attention on scritching her dog’s floppy ears. “Have you talked to him?”

She didn’t need to ask which him Jill meant. Cass shook her head. It had been over a month since the last time he’d tried to contact her. The one message she received for a follow up on post-production had come through Stephen. He hadn’t mentioned Josh at all.

“I think he’s let me go,” she said softly. She tipped her head back to blink at the ceiling, hoping the tears would slide neatly back into their ducts and leave her cheeks dry. “He knew what I needed and couldn’t give it to me. I’m not going to settle for less anymore.”

Jill’s lip wobbled. “I’m so glad,” she said in a wavering voice and leaned over for a hug. “You deserve to be a priority.”

Cass squeezed her eyes shut and wrapped her arms around her friend. “I really do.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

JOSH

The woman he had married bustled through the kitchen they had shared for less than thirteen months. Cupboard doors swooshed open and snicked closed in the search of a missing tea sachet, the soft soles of her house slippers and frilly apron a stark contrast to her couture blazer. Holt Renfrew, if he had to guess.

The blazer, not the apron.

She’d never worn an apron before. Maybe it was an escalation of her desire to keep an immaculate space. Maybe it was an attempt to woo him with her profound domesticity. He wondered if she knew neither option was going over the way she intended.

“Mom brought back a whole case when she got back from Hong Kong last month,” she said, going back to the first cupboard she’d opened. The box sat directly in her sightline, eyes passing over it twice more before her hand shot out to pull two sachets from the box. “You’ll love it.”

Probably not. They’d never liked the same tea. She knew that. Or had, at one time. Now was not the time to bring that up again.

“Thank you,” he said, and took a tiny sip out of politeness.

Even when they lived together, they had always been unfailingly polite with each other. Voices level, tone civilized. Even the night he had moved out, Vivian had sat at this table with her hands folded, mouth open and silent tears streaming down her face.

For the first time in years, he leaned into the memory instead of shutting it out.

The clanking of her spoon against her teacup filled the room. Perfect 4/4 time. He could have set a metronome to it.

“You didn’t bring anything with you,” she said, eyes on her cup.

“No.” No sense in bringing the divorce documents. Not today. “I just wanted to talk.”

“About what?”

He hated how hopeful her voice sounded.

“About you.” The words stuck behind his gritted teeth, and he forced his jaw to unclench. “What do you want, Viv?”

“Like something to go with the tea?” She jumped to her feet. “I have?—”

“No. What do you want?”

Her breath escaped in a quick ha. She dropped to her chair, inching her hand across the table to him. The faintly cloying scent of her perfume wafted across the table. “I want you.”

Anything he said would hurt. It was why he’d avoided it so long. From hurting her. “You don’t want me. You want the idea of me.”

“That’s not true,” she rushed in. “I want us to have our life back. We can pick up where we left off. You just needed to get that”—she twitched her head over her shoulder, like the life he had been living on his own the past three years was a longer than anticipated trip to the grocery store, like seeing him embracing Cass was an awkward elevator ride in close quarters—“out of your system.” She slipped her fingers under his. “It’s all I ever wanted.”

He didn’t avoid her gaze. “Tell me what that is.”

“It’s …” She stalled. “Us. Having our life together.”

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