Page 122 of Tender Heart
“We have to get home,” I call back to Evie. I have paperwork to sort out for a meeting in Rockland tomorrow, where they will decide my fate. Well, the lighthouse’s fate. The publishing house money from Evie’s stay has boosted the accounts, but we are still short. A bunch of stuffy old farts will decide whether I keep my house. No, my home.
Home.
A novel concept.
Myhome. No longer hers.
God, misery’s really stuck her talons in deep. And so soon.
We finally break through the tree line at the north end, and I stalk across the grassy area, hell bent on getting inside, up to the lantern room before I do something I’ll regret.
Something she doesn’t deserve.
I take the internal stairs two at a time. Smashing a hand to the door of the top room, I stumble inside and round the oversized light, dropping to my seat at its base, hands crawling through my hair as my palms press into my face.
I let loose a raw groan. “Fuck!”
When nobody enters my coveted space, I lie on the floor, flat on my back, staring at nothing. A million thoughts plunder my mind. None make any of this easier. None offer a solution to the heartbreak I know is coming. The telltale rumble of it is rushing toward me. The vibrations of the freight train aimed right at my heart reverberate through my body. Inch by painful fucking inch.
The house is quiet when I finally sit up.
The stars pop in the lavender sky to the east.
The lamp whirs to life, reminding me of its own impending doom, if the Restoration Society gets its way. I need to get the paperwork in order.
Dammit.
Running both hands through my hair, I haul in a fortifying breath. It’s our last night here. Together.
I should be civil.
I should leave things on a good note.
Make the last memory she has here something special.
I should . . .
I climb back down the spiral stairs and pass the bedroom. Evie’s sitting on the bed, looking out the window, her packed suitcase by her side.
Hell.
I leave her to her thoughts and make a start on dinner. Last one. Gotta make sure it’s good.
Tugging the refrigerator open, I lean down. A tray of her tomatoes sits on the top shelf. Some shredded chicken left over from yesterday. I pull them out and hunt for pasta in the pantry.
Twenty minutes later, I have the makings of a chicken and tomato pasta topped with basil, fresh from the garden, that smells divine.
I set the food on the table. Gathering up cutlery and the old bottle of red wine, I add it to our last meal.
God, that’s morbid.
Fuck me, Cal.
Satisfied with the table I’ve laid out for her, I call Evie down.
A moment later, beautiful, red-rimmed brown eyes meet mine, and I’m rooted to the spot.
You’re breaking my heart, mo ghràdh.
