Page 23 of The Love Destroyers

Claire’s father is handsome enough, like the father of one of the heroines in a Hallmark movie, but he’s hardly giving off silver sex vibes.

Chuck pronounces the chair beautiful, which it is, and a thoughtful gift, which it is not, and insists on positioning it next to the sofa. According to what my mother said in the car, he has only been in Asheville for a week, but his place already looks cozy and lived in, with plenty of deep greens, reds, and warm wood tones. It’s certainly more inviting than Smith House. The only surprise is an intricate model of a Camaro left out on a shelf, but maybe Chuck likes fast cars.

My brother and his wife are already there, dressed in matching sweaters. I head over to greet them, announce that the matching sweaters are so cute they make me want to throw up in my mouth, and Rosie gives me a big hug. “I was hoping you could help me redesign some of our closets later,” she tells me with a smile. “I found an app that lets you add in your exact measurements.”

“That sounds depressing,” I say before I can stop myself.

Her smile looks victorious. “Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?”

I study her, finally picking up what she’s putting down. “You’re trying to give me some kind of wakeup call, aren’t you?”

“I was worried you’d be into it.” She glances up at my brother, grinning. “Good news. Your sister doesn’t want to reorganize our closets. I’m pretty sure she hasn’t been body-swapped with one of your mom’s friends after all.”

My mother makes a huffing noise. “Please. My friends wouldneverdemean themselves enough to organize their own closets.”

“Of course they wouldn’t,” Rosie says fondly. Her lively eyes dart to mine, and I have to smile. She’s just…

Her name is Rosie, and she walks around wearing rose-colored glasses and making other people happy, and it’s just so fitting. So categorically pleasing that she’s forcing me to smile.

Still, it’s easy for her to say that about my mother. She didn’t have to spend the morning watching her prowl for geriatric dick.

In fact…

I pat Anthony on the arm. “Why don’t you help Mom with the notifications for her new app?”

There, that should entertain him.

“What kind of app?” he asks suspiciously.

“Shopping,” I say and make a beeline for the drinks and snacks table. Of course, Nicole and her husband, Damien, are standing beside it, talking in undertones. The way they’re staring at each other is the “look” equivalent of matching sweaters.

They seem so different—his manners are so smooth he could probably charm a dozen Karens without even trying, and her manners…

Oh, who am I kidding, she doesn’t have manners.

I don’t see a lot of people like them in my line of work. Then again, by the time someone seeks out a divorce attorney, they’re probably past the point of generic advice likedon’t go to bed mador even more specific advice likedon’t feed her fish to your lizard, Brad, you absolute lunatic.

Damien looks up as I approach them. Smiling, he says, “Can I fix you a mimosa, Emma?”

“Yes, I’d like it ninety-nine percent champagne, and one percent orange juice.”

He grins. “Done.”

And the beautiful man gives me exactly what I asked for.

Then, still grinning at me, he winks at his wife. “Why don’t you go show Emma those prints in the hallway, Nic? I really think she’d get some inspiration out of them.”

“Oh, I’d be goddamn delighted,” she says with a broad smile. “There’s nothing I like better than poking around other people’s shit.”

“Well, I certainly believethat,” I mutter. What I don’t believe is that she cares about any of the wall hangings in this place—she’s accepted a few of my rejects from Smith House, which I took out at poker night, but she made it clear that she intended to sell them on eBay. Fine by me and all the surviving Rosings Smiths. No, this is about trying to convince me, again, to have a go at Jeffrey.

I think of my mother, earlier, telling me that I needed something more fulfilling.

I think of Seamus’s texts, which I screenshotted before I blocked his number. I’d never admit it to anyone in a million years, but I reread them at night. He thinks I’m stronger than I am, and I’d like to be that woman again sometime—if I was ever actually her in the first place.

But Nicole doesn’t wait to see if I make the right decision; she grabs my arm and tugs.

“Have fun,” Damien says as she hustles me away, her grip surprisingly strong for a woman who’s at least three inches shorter than me. It takes me a second to process that he’s speaking to her, not me.

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