Page 59 of The Wrong Heart

Me:Are you busy? My ceiling tried to kill me.

“I really,reallyappreciate you coming out.”

Parker plods through my doorway, stomping his work boots against my entry mat. His dark hair is a chaotic mess of overgrown waves, and his skin is scuffed with dirt and paint smudges. He eyes me with that same penetrative stare that rattles my insides, like he’s trying to see beyond the words. “Yeah. Not a problem.”

His gaze skims over me, and I kind of wish I changed out of my comfy clothes. All I’m wearing is a pair of cotton shorts and an old college t-shirt with my hair thrown up in a messy bun. But then I scold myself for wishing that—it doesn’t matter. I’m not trying to impress him. “Did you just come from a job?”

“I did.”

“You seem to have a good business going. I’m happy for you.”

Parker’s eyebrows dip as he registers my response. He does that sometimes—frowns at compliments and smiles. Acts of kindness. At first I thought he was just an asshole, but now I’m wondering if he’s genuinely not accustomed to those things.

“I like staying busy.”

I flash him my teeth. “I get that. That’s why I went a little crazy with my baking business. It keeps me focused. Distracted.”

“They were good.”

His reply takes me off guard, and my smile wanes. Did he just say something…nice? To me? “Oh… the cupcakes?”

“Yeah.” Parker clears his throat, dipping his head towards the kitchen. “This way?”

I blindly nod, watching as he moves around me and shuffles toward the scene of the crime with his toolbox. Wringing my hands together, I follow, wondering if I should incite more conversation. More nice words. “So, um, do you live around here?”

Absolutely gripping, Melody. Great job.

“Ten minutes, give or take,” he says, peering up at the gaping hole when we enter the kitchen area. “Jesus.”

I wince as I follow his gaze. “I wish I had a cool story—a meteor shower, maybe a mysterious transient living in my ceilings. But my brother says it’s just a leaky pipe.”

Parker spares me a curious glance. “Leaky pipe sounds less life-threatening.”

“Not a cool story, though,” I breeze, flicking my finger at him.

He presses his lips together, and I choose to believe he’s holding back a smile.

“I’ll go grab the ladder from my truck,” he murmurs, his toolbox clanking against the countertop. “I can measure and shit today, then I’ll be back tomorrow to finish. I have another job during the day, so it’ll probably be early evening.”

“That sounds great. Thank you.”

Parker gives me a little nod, averting his eyes and moving around me to head out to his truck. His arm grazes mine as he passes, and I’m zapped with a shot of warmth that turns my skin flush. The fleeting over-the-shoulder look he sends me has me wondering if he felt it, too.

I wrap my arms around myself, trying to scrub the goosebumps away. They are physical evidence of thisfeeling—this nagging curiosity that is quickly blossoming into something else. And maybe I should be happy about it. Relieved. It’s proof that I’m still alive, that I’m capable of feeling something other than overwhelming numbness.

But truthfully, it angers me.

How dare my body react in this way, how dare itfeel.

How dare it feel roused by a man who isn’t Charlie.

My eyes trail to our wedding canvas, hanging on the far wall, the one I’ve debated taking down at least fifty-thousand times. It hurts to look at it. It hurts to see his smile, so blissful, so in love—so unaware of how swiftly our love story would be snuffed out, ending in bitter tragedy.

Tears burn my eyes, my throat stinging, so I distract myself in the kitchen and begin to bake. I try my best to ignore Parker’s presence as he sets up the ladder, carrying tools and measuring equipment between his teeth. I try to ignore the way the muscles in his back pull and stretch against the fabric of his light gray t-shirt, and the way a faint whiff of his shampoo or deodorant mingles with the chocolate brownie batter—something clean and outdoorsy. Organic, like the way a gentle breeze might smell way up in the mountains.

A smile pulls at my lips—a zephyr.

“Fucking hell.”

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