Page 3 of Journey to You

She gnawed on her bottom lip, worrying it until she tasted the gloss she’d swiped on this morning. “Think I’m crazy?”

“Crazy? I think it’s brilliant.” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “It’s exactly what you need. Something to focus on, something to get your mind off losing Rich.”

She hated the pity in his eyes, hated that she had to fake her grief and pretend like she cared.

She didn’t.

Not since that first incident, four months into her marriage, when the man she’d married had given her a frightening glimpse into her future.

She thought Richard was the type of guy to never let her down, the type of guy to keep her safe, to give her what she’d always wanted: stability and security, something she’d never had since her dad had died when she was ten.

But Richard hadn’t been that guy, and by the accolades of his adoring public and co-workers, she was the only one who knew the truth.

Richard Downey had been a bastard, and it was times like this, when she had to pretend in front of one of his friends, that an all-consuming, latent fury swept through her.

If he hadn’t upped and died of a heart attack, she would’ve been tempted to kill him herself for what he’d put her through, what she’d discovered after his death.

“This has nothing to do with Richard. I’m doing this for me.”

Her bitterness spilled out in a torrent and she clamped her lips shut. Ethan didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of her resentment towards Richard. She’d wasted enough time analysing and self-flagellating and fuelling her anger. That’s all she’d been doing for the last year since he died, speculating and brooding over a lot of pointless ‘what-ifs’.

What if she’d known about the affair?

What if she’d stood up to him rather than keeping up appearances for the sake of the business?

What if she’d travelled to India with her mum when Adhira had first asked her three years ago, at a time that could’ve changed her life for the better?

To her surprise, Ethan laid a hand over hers and gave it a comforting squeeze. She stared at his long, strong fingers, the light dusting of dark hair on the back of his hand. He’d never touched her like this, and while strangely uncomfortable, she liked the solid warmth.

“I didn’t mean to rehash any painful memories for you,” he said, his tone concerned.

Shaking her head, she wished the simple action could wipe away her awful memories. “It’s not your fault. I think about stuff every day anyway.”

He searched her face for—what? Confirmation she wasn’t still grieving, wasn’t so heartbroken she couldn’t return to the workforce after wasting the last few years playing society hostess to a man who didn’t give a damn about her?

What he saw in her expression had his eyes narrowing in speculation.

“As much as I think heading back to work is a great idea, maybe you should get away first. Take a vacation, a break before you get sucked back into the full-time rat-race.” He patted his chest. “Take it from me, a certified workaholic, once you hit the ground running you won’t have a minute to yourself. Going back to work is a big commitment.”

When she tried to slide her hand out from under his, he tightened his grip. “A friendly piece of advice you can take or leave, but I really think you should do it.”

She opened her mouth to protest and he held a finger to her lips to silence her, the impact of his simple action slugging her all the way to her toes.

It had to be her urge to speak, to drown out any potential rationale he could throw at her rather than the gentle brush of his finger against her lips causing her stomach to twist like a pretzel.

“You’ve held together remarkably well considering what you’ve been through this past year but it’s time.” He lowered his finger but didn’t release her other hand.

“For what?”

“Time foryou. Time to put aside your grief and move on.” He gestured to the stack of folders on the table between them. “From what I’ve seen the last six months, you’re a damn good food critic, one of Melbourne’s best, but honestly? The way youare right now, holding down a regular job would be tough and you’d end up not being able to tell the difference between steak tartare and well-done Wagyu beef, let alone write about it.”

She should hate him for what he said. It hurt, all of it. But the truth often did.

She arched a brow. “Are you finished?”

He nodded, finally relenting and releasing her hand, and she snatched it out from under his. “You’re still here and you haven’t stabbed me with the nearest fork, so maybe you’ll think about what I said?”

Ironically, she’d been thinking about taking a trip. Specifically, the trip she’d booked with her mum. The itinerary they’d planned was tucked away in her old music box at home, the one her dad had given her when she’d been three, the one with the haunting tune that never failed to make her cry when she thought about all she’d lost.

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