Page 1 of The Meaning Of You

PROLOGUE

Davis

I glancedat the dashboard clock and groaned.Dammit.

I was going to be late.

Our thirteenth wedding anniversary and I was going to be late.

Like last year, and the year before that.

I slapped the steering wheel in anger, hung a U-turn, and planted my foot back the way I’d come. My 1980 BMW work in progress coughed in protest then kicked up gravel on the quiet country road just out of Clevedon and lurched forward. The tiny rural township southeast of Auckland was a mix of small acreages with a leaning toward the equestrian, with New Zealand Bloodstock and the Karaka Saleyards being in close proximity.

The additional ten kilometres an hour wasn’t going to solve my problem, not with the chaos of after-school pick-ups and the horror of a burgeoning rush hour, but discovering I’d inadvertently picked up one of Justin’s books along with my own when I’d left his house had screwed my last chance of making the restaurant on time.

Even if I floored my precious baby the entire forty kilometres back into town with every traffic light in my favour, a break in the usual ridiculousness of the motorway,andwith God on my side, there was no way I was going to make it to that six o’clock booking. In fifteen minutes, the motorway traffic would get super gnarly, and all my carefully laid plans were about to go to hell in a rather cheap and unattractive handbag.

I knew this would happen because it always happened. That was me. I should’ve made an effort to leave early for once. But no. Being the total idiot that I was, I’d run things close to the wire... as usual... giving myself only a small window of opportunity to avoid the motorway snarl with zero room for fuck-ups.

And then, of course, I’d fucked up.

Shocker.

When I’d seen the spine ofThe Three Musketeersstaring up at me from the passenger seat, I’d briefly considered carrying on and simply returning the damn thing by post. But I’d seen Justin with it in his hands too many times. For whatever reason, it was important to him, and since we’d decided this would be our last meet-up, it didn’t feel right not to return it straight away.

Did I mention the idiot part?

Because, goddammit, Nick was gonna kill me. He’d begged and bribed and likely sold his left kidney to get a table at the hottest eating establishment in Auckland, and making him wait thirty minutes for me to show up was hardly the ideal start to a night of romantic celebration. My balls were mincemeat, especially since I’d forgotten our anniversary altogether until Nick reminded me at breakfast with a beautiful card and an accompanying rare flare of hurt behind those intriguing grey eyes.

Colour me desperately seeking redemption.

Was I an arsehole? Why, yes. Yes, I was.

Not deliberately. It was never deliberate. But that didn’t excuse it. I’d been so consumed by the research for my next book, our wedding anniversary had completely slipped my mind. There was no excuse other than I lived in a perpetual state of distractedness that consistently drove my husband crazy. He deserved better.

I glanced again at the clock and sighed. There was a snowball’s chance in hell of me getting that redemption I so badly wanted.Makeup sex might be awesome, in theory, but Nick wasn’t a pushover for a quick apology, at least not mine. Lateness was my superpower and not one to be proud of. I could be late even after three alarms and a reminder call. I wasn’t proud of it, but I also hadn’t managed to fix it.

Nick wasn’t going to just roll over and forgive me. The man was an adorable grump with a finely tuned capacity to carry a grudge. He might own every piece of my heart, be soft as butter beneath all those frown lines, give you the shirt off his back and his trousers as well if you needed them, but there were days Nick Fisher could make Ebeneezer Scrooge look like Mary freaking Poppins.

The thought made me smile. I loved the man to bits. Nick might love me so hard that I could hardly breathe when I saw it in his eyes, but forgetting our anniversary and then being late for the dinner he’d planned? Oh yeah, I’d be lucky to get laid before Christmas...nextyear.

Arriving back at Justin’s small acreage, I debated just leaving the book in his letterbox, then decided against it. Knowing what he did for a living, I figured I better return it personally. Then I could skedaddle back to the city like my arse was on fire.

The driveway was a good five hundred metres and curved through a section of dense bush that hid the house from the road. When I’d left, Justin said he was done for the day, so when I rounded the last sweep of driveway and the spacious but non-descript seventies brick bungalow came into view, I blinked in surprise. Another car was parked in the exact spot I’d vacated just fifteen minutes before.

Shit.

I squeezed past the Holden and pulled off to the side under a massive liquidambar afire in autumn colour. The sea of leaves made for slippery purchase, and the car slid sideways a little before coming to a stop. I sat for a second in park with the engine running, staring at the house. If Justin had another client, the last thing he’d want was me knocking on the door. He was nothing if not discreet. I could leave his book on the doorstep or go back to the idea of dropping it in his letterbox instead. I decided on the latter.

I wedged the notebook between my thighs and was about to head back down the drive when the sound of arguing made me look back toward the house. I squinted into the fading sun, but nothing moved behind the large picture window of Justin’s front room. Then it came again. More shouting, louder this time, and coming not from the front of the house but the small glass conservatory to the side. Justin and I had consumed a beer and talked books in there one afternoon. He’d commented that it was his favourite spot to read, and it was also the place he grew marijuana for his personal use.

Behind the glass, three men stood arguing although Justin was the only man I could see clearly. He was gesticulating wildly, almost panicked. Alarm curled in my belly. He looked... terrified.

I killed the engine and reached for the door handle. Before I could open it, the taller of the two men grabbed Justin by the wrist and spun him around, shoving his face against the glass. Even from twenty metres I could see the fear in Justin’s expression, his mouth working awkwardly, shouting—no... pleading. I threw the car door open intending to... who the fuckknew what, and that’s when Justin saw me. His eyes went wide and he struggled harder. The two looked up and?—

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The shorter of the two said something to Justin who started to nod. The other man walked toward the glass and stared straight at me. He clicked his fingers and Justin’s handsome face exploded in front of my eyes. Glass spewed as far as the Holden making a sickening chinking sound on its hood, and all I could do was gape wordlessly as Justin sank like a stone to the conservatory floor.

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