I toy with the edge of my sheet, wondering if I should ask him about his wife. It feels weird to tell him about Trevor and not ask him anything about his marriage.
“How’d you meet Lucy?”
I can hear his indrawn breath. I remember all too vividly how he shut down the last time I brought her up. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“I don’t mind. You told me about Trevor. She owned a store, a high-end craft design boutique. And she saw my furniture, and she wanted to stock it. I brought her a few pieces, and—well, one thing led to another.”
My stomach clenches. So she’d been not only his wife but his patron and his partner. I remind myself that I’m not trying to compete with her or take her place, and I feel a sharp wave of relief, the perfect reminder not to get in too deep. “What happened to the store?”
“We—we closed it after she died. None of us—her parents, her sisters, me—were passionate about it the way she was. But it hurt to do it. When she knew she was dying, she told me flat out that she didn’t want anyone keeping it open to honor her, only if we genuinely wanted to run it, but—I still feel crappy about it.”
“I’m sure she would understand.”
He goes silent on the other end of the phone, and I feel like I’ve overstepped, that presuming to know anything about how his late wife would feel is too much, especially in this situation we’re in. Then he says, “I think she would have liked you.”
That makes me smile. Warmth spreads in my chest, sending flares out in all directions.
Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!
“Um, thanks.” I take a deep breath. “I, um, I should go.”
It comes out more abrupt than I mean it to.
“Yeah, okay,” he says easily. “Well, nice cuddling with you.”
“Ditto.”
After I hang up, I lie in bed, wondering what’s happening. How I feel. If he feels it, too. What it means.
What kind of a glutton for punishment I am.
It takes me a long, long time to fall asleep.