Page 22 of That Reunited Feeling

If I could slap myself across the face without it looking weird I would. Instead, I reach for my wine and try to focus on its suddenly mesmerizing golden depths. My eyes catch my watch. Good God, it’s just after ten o’clock. How have I been here for almost three hours?

There’s a rattling noise behind me as Tom puts the plates in the dishwasher.

“So why are you moving to Los Angeles?” he asks.

And now it’s that time of the evening where he tries to make the conversation real.

The sound of the dishwasher closing is followed by the clink of fresh plates being taken from the cupboard, then the sucking noise of the fridge door being opened.

Better to keep this chat meaningless. I’ll just tell him the bare minimum. “Remember Rachel Leighton from school?”

I stare into the dark mirror of the window opposite, watching Tom’s reflection make its way back toward me, hands full.

“Of course.” His voice is right behind me now.

“She lives there. And invited me to stay. Fresh start for me and Dylan after…everything.”

Tom walks around the end of the table, back to his seat.

“For good?” he asks, placing the chocolate cheesecake between us, and next to it two plates with small forks and a sharp knife resting on top.

“Probably.”

“What are you running away from?”

“That’s a bit of an assumption. Maybe I’m runningtosomething.”

“Are you?”

“Maybe.”

“What will you do when you get there?’

“Rachel says everyone in LA has an assistant and it’s a great way to get into anything. And since I have no qualifications but am practical and good at organizing things, I thought it’d be worth a try. She and her husband are well connected and can help me get my foot in the door somewhere.” Tom twirls the thick silver-and-black ring around the third finger of his right hand as he concentrates on what I’m saying. “And I’m using my spare time to teach myself all the usual office software stuff. I know a bit already, but I want to get good enough to talk about it in interviews.”

“Maybe something in the music biz?”

“I don’t know. Whatever I can get to start. Can’t be too picky with not only zero qualifications but zero experience and zero references.”

Tom picks up the knife and holds it over the cheesecake, about to plunge it in.

A thought suddenly occurs to me. “Wait a second.” I hold up my hand to stop him from cutting into it, my eyes scanning the surface. “Shit.” A chill passes over me, and goosebumps erupt on my arms and legs.

Tom pauses, baffled, knife hovering. “What?”

I look from the cake to Tom.

“There are sixteen,” I say.

His brows pinch, the lines at the corners deepening. “Sixteen what?”

“Stars. On the cheesecake.”

Tom falls silent. His eyes rove over it, lips moving as he counts to himself. It’s the longest opportunity I’ve had to study his face without him looking at me since he got here—the same face I fell in love with, except even more attractive with age.

He does look tired, though. But there’s a weary wisdom to it, along with the ever-present chance he’ll break into a smirk at one of his own smart comments.

“Shit. There are.” A tight muscle in his neck twitches.

---