Page 7 of Your Second Chance
She clutched her bag like it was some kind of lifeline, and my grip loosened on instinct. I should’ve let her go. Ishould’ve. She was my colleague—we worked together. There were boundaries for a reason, but apparently, I didn’t know how to keep my mouth shut.
“What’re you up to this weekend?” I asked, like an idiot. “I can show you the best pubs if you?—”
“No.” Her voice was sharp, cutting me off mid-sentence. She shook her arm free of my grip like it was nothing, likeIwas nothing. “I don’t hang out with anyone from work.”
Before I could say anything else—before I could even process how quickly I’d been shut down—she slammed the door. Hard. I watched through the windshield as she crossed the street without looking back, her combat boots pounding against the pavement.
I sat there for a second, stunned, the quiet inside the car ringing in my ears.
“What the fuck?” I said to no one but myself.
That wasfuckingstupid. I was trying to be nice, to be helpful—hell, I didn’t even know why I’d said it—but that’s what I got. She didn’t want my help. Didn’t want anything to do with me.
I scrubbed a hand over my jaw, leaning back in the seat and staring at the empty street ahead of me. I hadn’t dated, hadn’t fucked anyone since taking this coaching job. It was easier that way—no complications, no messes. Women were complicated. They wanted things I couldn’t give, and I’d decided it wasn’t worth the risk.
But her?
Nova was something else. Hours. It had beenhourssince I met her, and I couldn’t figure her out.
And yet, here I was, sitting in my car, replaying every damn word she said.
4
nova
“I feel like dog shit, Luna,” I groaned, popping one of the nausea pills the doctor had given me. “I donotwant to go out and get a Sunday roast.”
“But it’sSunnnday,” Luna whined, drawing the word out like a child before chucking a shoe in my direction.
I dodged it—barely—and shot her a glare. “Throw another, and I’ll aim for your expensive candles.”
Luna ignored me, already rummaging through the pile of jackets by the door. “Come on. You’ve been moping around all weekend. Fresh air. Gravy. Yorkshire puddings. You’ll thank me later.”
I sighed, slumping farther into the sofa, my face half buried in a pillow. “We live inEnglandnow, Lune. Sunday roasts are a weekly occurrence. I can skip one.”
She huffed dramatically, hands on her hips. To be fair, wehadupgraded since moving to London. Our flat was actually nice—big windows that let in enough light to make it feel airy, even when it rained, and smack in the middle of a much bougier neighborhood than we had any right to afford. Whereas in Chicago, our apartment was much smaller, and I was sleeping out in the living room.
It had two bedrooms and an office, which I’d been using for work. Though, at this rate, it was probably going to become the rice kernel’s room—eventually. That thought alone made me glance over at the closed door, as though the empty room already knew what was coming.
We’d thrifted most of our furniture from charity shops across the city—mismatched chairs, a secondhand sofa that was somehow both hideous and perfect, and a little kitchen table that wobbled if you leaned too hard on one side. Luna called it “charmingly eclectic,” which was her way of saying we were broke, but resourceful.
Otherwise, we lived pretty minimally. The walls were still mostly bare, except for a couple of prints Luna had hung up. It was ours, and it felt bigger, cleaner, andbetterthan anything we’d had back in the States.
I looked around, taking it in—the cozy disarray, the faint smell of coffee from this morning still lingering in the kitchen—and sighed. This was home. Whether I liked it or not.
“It’s not about the roast,” Luna said finally. “You need to get out. You’ve been hiding in here like a hermit all weekend, and I’m not letting you wallow.”
I cracked an eye open and scowled. “I’m not wallowing.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got your sweatpants pulled up to your knees like a gremlin, Nova. That’s wallowing.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I let out another dramatic groan, sitting up enough to glare at her. “Fine. But if I throw up at the pub, you’re cleaning it up.”
Luna grinned, victorious. “Deal. Now go put on something that doesn’t scream ‘I gave up on life.’ ”
“You look cute,” Luna said.
It was September, but there was a brisk chill in the air, yet somehow Luna looked like we were going to a club in Mykonos. She was in a cropped white top and a long, white maxi skirt. She had big, gold hoop earrings, and her hair was straightened.
