Page 154 of Rewind It Back

“But I only had one hand,” he continues. “So just imagine what I could’ve done with two.”

“I’ve spent a lot of time imagining andrememberingwhat you can do with two hands.”

“Don’t flirt with me, Hart. Not when you’re about to leave me all day.”

“Do you want to try it first?” I ask, holding the mug out in his direction.

His smile is sweet when he brings the mug to his mouth and takes a sip, but our little moment is interrupted by his phone ringing in his pocket, and when he pulls it out, his mom’s name is obvious enough that we both see it.

“Sorry,” he says, switching the sound off. “I’ll call her back later.”

“You should answer it, Rio. I don’t need another reason for her to hate me.”

He gives me this look, as if he wants to argue, but then it softens to something laced with sympathy. Because we both know he can’t tell me that I’m wrong.

“Please answer it,” I plead.

He hesitates for a moment before he leans down and brushes a kiss on my hair, answering his phone at the same time.

“Hey, Ma,” he says, leaving the kitchen to take the call in another part of the house.

The reality of the broader situation comes into focus again.

Rio and I may have forgiven each other, but his mom hasn’t. And not only does that worry me because I know how close the two of them are, but there’s a part of me that misses her too.

Not only was Mrs. DeLuca my mom’s best friend, our neighbor, and my boyfriend’s mom, but she was practically my second mother as well. As soon as we moved in next door, she treated me like the daughter she never had.

The day she found out about her husband’s affair, I’ll never forget the way she looked at me when she realized I knew and didn’t tell her. It was this agonizing mix of betrayal and disappointment on her face, and it’s been ingrained in my mind ever since.

She looked at me like she hated me with every fiber of her being and I can’t exactly blame her for it. Every day for the last six years, I’ve regretted not telling Rio sooner, but I equally regret not telling her.

I have missed her for as long as I have been missing him.

Trying my best not to focus on those facts or what is most likely a less-than-cordial phone call happening in the other room, I grab my own phone as a distraction. I have new progress photos of Rio’s house that I should share on my Instagram.

I didn’t have any social media until I moved here last spring and realized what a huge part it played in growing a clientele. I started an Instagram page after I learned that every designer at the firm had one, and I began posting consistently while I was working on Wren’s house. I don’t have a large following, and most of the comments are from my dad, but I figured it would only aid in helping me land a full-time position at Tyler Braden Interiors if I could start curating an online presence and personal aesthetic.

Except this time, when I open the app, I find a lot more than the few hundred followers I had before. Now, I’m just shy of thirty thousand.

There are new comments on every single post. Some are asking how they can request to work with me, others thanking me for listing the paint colors I used in the captions, and even more simply gushing over my style.

“What’s wrong?” Rio asks, coming back into the room.

I hold my phone up to show him. “I have almost thirty thousand new followers on my design account this week.”

“Hell yeah, Hal!” His smile lights up his whole face. “I’ve been sharing all your posts about my house, and my friends have been too. Zee has an obscene number of followers, and Miller’s account for the patisserie has a big local following. And of course there’s Ryan, who is almost never online, but when he is, his engagement is wild. I think he shared your account in his stories yesterday.”

My throat does this odd tightening thing. “That’s so nice of them, but they barely know me.”

“Well, they knowmeand how I feel about you, so whether you like it or not, you’re already part of the group. I’m pretty sure the girls are ready to ban me from girls’ nights in hopes that you’ll start joining instead.”

That sounds overwhelmingly lovely. I have craved friendship and community for so many years now. I was a social butterfly before my dad got sick and I’d like to get back to that part of who I am.

“You go to their girls’ nights?” I ask playfully. “Why does that not surprise me in the least?”

“They have way better snacks than what the guys have when they get together.” He takes my mug, setting it on the counter. “Come here for a second.”

Taking my arms, he guides them to wrap around his neck, his own going low around my waist as he holds us together.

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