Page 78 of That Reunited Feeling

Shit.

Of course I knew Louisa existed. And I even knew what she looked like. When I’ve taken the odd five minutes here and there over the years to search Tom’s name online, pictures of them looking cute together always popped up.

But the image of her, even though it was upside down and at the bottom of a drawer, is still in Tom’s home. And suddenly I feel like I’m standing in another woman’s warm shoes.

Tom said he’d had this place a few years. But was it just his? For when he was in town working? And she lived at the big house in the country? Or did she live here? Sit in this chair I’m sitting in?

My backside springs from the seat like it’s suddenly scalding hot.

My glorious fantasy just got invaded by a cold, hard shot of reality. Not just because this is a photo of her. And not just because this is a photo from their wedding. But because of the way he’s looking at her. There’s real love in his eyes.

He’s looking at her the way any woman would want to be looked at on their wedding day. The wayI’vedreamed of being looked at on my wedding day.

Has my brain already run a far-fetched scenario of a wedding in which Tom looks at me exactly like that? Maybe.

But he’s already looked at someone like that. Already felt that way about someone. And that someone wasn’t me.

My feet take me out of the room and to the bedroom I’d seen in my frantic search for the office.

I push the door fully open, but don’t go in. My eyes are drawn to the bed.

My stomach clenches, threatening to expel all its airline food contents.

Is this where he slept with her? Did she snuggle up to him on that huge bed, with the dark gray buttoned headboard? Didhe go down on her in those sheets the way he did with me in the back of the car?

Is this where I’m supposed to be sleeping with him tonight? In the exact same spot? On the exact same mattress? In the exact same sheets?

Thebing-bongof the elevator doors chimes down the hallway.

Fuck. I still have the photo in my hand.

Heat flashing through me and my pulse pounding in my head, I yank the bedroom door shut and race back to the office, drop the picture face down at the bottom of the drawer, shove the envelopes back on top, and slam the drawer shut.

“Hey!” And around the doorway appears the dreamy, smiling face of the man who fell in love with the woman in the photo.

22

TOM

Hannah looks shocked and a little twitchy and uncomfortable, like a puppy caught with their face in the garbage.

Probably just the jet lag and her worry about doing the pre-interview screenings. During the flight, she was nervous about it and took some reassuring that she knows better than anyone who I would—and wouldn’t—like to work with.

But the very best part of the flight was falling asleep hand in hand with her. Who knew that such a small thing could feel like the biggest step, the most intimate thing in the world?

While I was at work, dealing with the staff who’re refusing to talk to Gareth the Grammy chucker until he apologizes to Sailor Caldwell, and Gareth refusing to apologize, running through the back of my mind the whole time was a hum of anticipation at the thought of coming home to Hannah. Of her being here when I walked through the door. Of touching her, kissing her and, oh holy fuck, of finally being inside her.

And, man alive, she looks like she’s right where she belongs. Seeing her standing by the desk in the home office I barely use, all the stress of my hideous afternoon at the office falls away.

Hell, all the stress of the last few months falls away. The anxiety-inducing divorce is suddenly distant history. The ex-wife still trying to milk me for another house couldn’t be further from my mind. And all the problems and legal issues at work can wait till tomorrow.

Because, right now, every thought in my head is of Hannah. Just being around her lifts every last ounce of weight from my shoulders, throws off all traces of fatigue, and replaces it with a buzzing energy, the joy of being alive.

Seeing her here is a fantasy of how my life could be. It’s ridiculous, obviously, but there’s nothing wrong with a harmless fantasy if it gets you through the day. And that hum of anticipation that kept me on my toes while I was gone, now turns to a warm sense of comfort that, at least for now, she is here.

I’ve just come home to Hannah fucking Hepburn.

“Hi,” she says with a lopsided smile.

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