Page 15 of The Woman at the Funeral

He was quick to drag his gaze back to my face, though. And I wasn’t sure if it was reality or wishful thinking that I could swear I saw heat in his eyes.

“Blair,” he said, his gaze flicking to the side, taking in my long dark hair.

I reached self-consciously toward it.

I never wore it down. Not even on my wedding. It felt too, I don’t know, personal and intimate to have it down. I felt more put together and composed when it was pulled back.

“I—” he started.

But it was just then that someone in the closet set off an avalanche that had me tipping my head back to stare at the ceiling as a sigh escaped me.

“They beat me here.”

“You knew they were coming?”

“Ronny texted me. I thought I would beat them here to warn you.”

“Did she say why she was coming here?” I asked, moving aside to let Nico in, feeling like he was an ally in a time when I really needed one. Even if I didn’t know the man well enough to know anything about his loyalties.

The look that slashed across his face told me it was definitely one of Ronny’s snide remarks.

“You can tell me. Trust me, I’ve heard worse.”

Nico sucked in a breath so deep it expanded his whole chest. “She said she wanted to get Matt’s personal effects before you sold them.”

“Sold them,” I scoffed, shaking my head. “Because I need the money.” I waved a hand out at the apartment that he had to know I paid for all on my own. Since Matthew never could keep a job.

When we’d first met, he’d told me he was a consultant. And I’d been so starry-eyed and caught up in his web of charm that I hadn’t realized that was just a synonym for ‘unemployed.’

“I’m sorry,” Nico said.

“It’s not your fault. Maybe this is good. Maybe I won’t have to worry about them bursting in at a future date. Do you want some coffee?”

“Sure. Whatever you’re having is fine.”

“I’m having a banana bread latte,” I warned him. Despite myself, my late husband’s words came back to me, teasing me about my ‘expensive girly drinks’ in such a way that it was more of a judgment than just a lighthearted jab. Objectively, I knew he was probably just annoyed that he couldn’t pay for my coffee habit. Though that didn’t explain why—when I’d really been trying to get pregnant—he continued to tease me about it even when I’d given up coffee for months.

“Whatever you’re having, sweetheart,” he said, shrugging.

“I can make a plain one,” I told him as I got my homemade banana bread syrup out of the fridge.

Unwanted, Ronny’s words came back to me.

“A glass-front fridge? What, does she want to show off how empty it is? What does she even feed you, baby?”

It had been useless to remind her that I liked aesthetics. My whole career revolved around them.

All she cared about was if I was cooking for Matthew or not.

And I was. I just liked to go daily to the market to pick out the ingredients to whatever spoke to me. To make a meal that Matthew would inevitably call “too fancy,” refuse to eat, and then go out to get greasy fast food.

“Is that homemade coffee syrup?” Nico asked, head tipping to the side. “Now I have to try it.” I offered him a little smile as I poured a generous amount into each cup before brewing the espresso. “Damn, that smells good.”

Even if he just had good manners, I felt a little tingle at the praise.

When was the last time I heard a man say something nice to me? Months, at least.

“Hot or iced?” I asked, going into the freezer to grab my acrylic container full of round ice cubes.

---