Page 7 of That Reunited Feeling

She erupts in a hearty belly laugh. “You kill me.” Her tone changes as she turns away from the phone slightly. “All right. All right. I’m getting off.”

Then she’s back to me. “I got to go shower before work. Just relax. Make it easy. And everything will be fine. Benice.”

“Nice? Easy?” My voice is weaker. The adrenaline rush of panic is starting to fade, leaving behind a crumpled version of myself.

“Try,” she says, as if it’s as simple as that. “It’s just two months, three tops, before our house is ready.”

Threenow? It might as well be three years.

“Then you can get on a plane, and this time you leavehimbehind,” she says with a note of triumph.

I drop my head into my hand and close my eyes. “I’ll try.” But I definitely don’t promise to succeed.

“Great! Love you, Han.” She blows a kiss down the phone and hangs up.

I’m stuck.

Fucking stuck.

Stuck here with Tom and his absurdly hot face. Stupid hot hair. Stupid hot shoulders and chest. Stupid hot legs. And whatever the hell the hotness was behind his hands. He certainlyseemed to be fighting to contain a whole lot more than was there the one and only time I saw it. And it was hardly a bad show back then.

I look at the carnage in the cases on either side of me.

Suppose I’d better unpack.

3

TOM

“P

erfect timing,” Maggie says, sliding bacon and eggs out of a frying pan and onto a plate where two slices of buttered toast await. “I heard movement and thought you’d be hungry.”

“Looks delicious. Thank you.” I take a stool at the island as she places breakfast in front of me, along with a knife and fork. “But by ‘movement,’ do you mean some shrieking and raised voices?”

My aunt’s brows shoot up, and her eyes grow to approximately the size of the yolks on my plate. “Raised voices?” She couldn’t try to look more innocent if she put a halo over her head. “No. Why?” There’s a hint of pink in her cheeks as she turns away and opens the fridge. “Ketchup?”

An Oscar winner she is not.

The aroma rising from my plate is mouthwatering. I pick up a slice of toast and pierce the top of a perfectly fried egg with the corner. Warm, molten yellow leaks out.

“How come you didn’t tell me you’d given Hannah a job?”

Maggie puts the ketchup bottle in front of me. “Oh.” She turns her back, opens an upper cabinet, and produces two grinders. “Salt and pepper?” she asks, placing them next to the ketchup. “Maybe for the eggs.”

I swallow my mouthful of toast. “Did you think I might not notice?”

“Notice what, darling?”

“Hannah. Walking around your house.”

Her face lights up. “Oh! Did you bump into her?”

“Did I ever.” I grind some pepper onto the eggs. “I imagine that’s what you heard.”

At my sideways glance she turns on the tap and runs her—seemingly perfectly clean—hands under the water. “Like I said, thought I heard movement.” She concentrates on her hands as she dries them on a tea towel that bears the sloganBay Leaf In Yourselfsurrounded by images of herbs. “I was going to tell you about that today. Thought I’d let you settle in first.”

“A little warning might have been nice.” If anyone else had pulled a trick like that, I’d have been furious. But how can anyone ever be mad with Aunt Mags?

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