Page 18 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

I bite my lip. “No.”

“This isn’t going to be covered,” he tells me gently, “but you can call them to check.”

My life is unraveling right before my eyes. I’ve always prided myself on being the responsible high-achiever. Valedictorian of my high school class, full-ride scholarship to college, business degree completed with honors. The works. I made a mistake with my choice of husband, but I had no way of knowing he’d wreck my life. I thought we were building a future together. Then the divorce happened.

That was six years ago.

Yes, I built this growing organization business. I have a social media following and I’m able to pay eight people a decent living wage. But I’m hanging on by a fraying thread. Ever since Terry and I finalized our divorce, I’ve been clinging on to sanity with the very tips of my fingers. His new wife’s phone call evidently made me slip off, and now I’m waiting for the grisly splat.

“Are you okay?” Remy asks, voice gentle. The heat that had zinged between us has faded, and it left concern in its wake.

When was the last time a man was concerned about me? Even if it’s simply Remy being polite, the sound of his voice and the softness in his gaze make me open my mouth and talk.

“I don’t think I’ve been okay for a long time,” I tell him. “Not since my marriage fell apart, at least.”

And why did I just tell him that?

But instead of changing the subject, Remy tilts his head and hums. “I know what you mean.”

“A lot of people talk about divorce like it’s just another life event,” I hear myself continue. “It’s commonplace. Relationship isn’t working? Get divorced. Move on. Easy.” I grimace, mind stuck in the past. “That’s not how it was for me. My divorce devastated me. It completely wrecked the image I had of myself and my life and my future. It felt like a part of me died, the part that had a vision for how her life was going to go. Now…”

I stop talking. What am I trying to say? That my divorce popped the bubble of my perfect life, and I’ve been in a tailspin ever since? That despite my successes, the shadow of my failed marriage hangs over me like a black cloud? That I’ve never really faced the fact that my “perfect life” wasn’t perfect at all?

When I meet his gaze, Remy nods, and I can’t even imagine how much he must be regretting me being his neighbor. Judging by how quickly he dispatched that beautiful woman earlier, he’s probably frantically trying to come up with something to say to get me out of his office.

I imagined the softness in his voice. I mistook polite concern for something more.

But then in a low voice, he says, “My divorce taught me a lot about people and how they’re capable of treating each other. How little those vows really mean.”

“Messy?”

“Extremely.”

“I’m sorry.”

Remy shrugs. The light outside the exterior window is fading fast, casting half his face in shadow. He looks angular and harsh and beautiful. “It is what it is.”

I let out a sigh. “Yeah. Except I keep making stupid decisions, and they keep biting me in the ass.”

Remy’s fingers drum on the pad of paper. His gaze circles my face, and then he shakes his head. “The right decision here is to get rid of that crappy van and get a decent one. I can help you find something reliable.”

“That’s very neighborly of you,” I tell him with a tight smile. “Thank you. But I don’t have enough money for that. I’ll come up with four grand somehow. Do you do payment plans?”

Maybe if I can spread the cost out, I can pick up some more contracts and get an injection of cash. I’ll advertise extra hard. I’ll ask people for referrals. I’ll post on social media every single day. I’ll reach out to everyone who ever asked me about my services, and I’ll make them hire me. The image of my ex-husband and his pretty new wife pops into my head, and I pinch my lips.

Laurel is not going to be happy about this, but I might have to take that job no matter how many blocks of cheese she throws at my head.

“I could knock the labor off the bill, so you’d just pay for parts,” Remy says, then clears his throat and frowns like he didn’t mean to offer that at all.

“I’m not going to ask you to work for free,” I tell him, straightening my spine. “It’s okay. I hit your tree and ripped up your lawn. I already owe you so much. I’ll pay for the repairs to your property and my van.”

There’s a long pause. Remy reads my face, then frowns. His gaze drops to the three neat piles I made on his desk, and a strange light enters his eyes. He leans back in his chair, glancing around the room. Finally, as I shift in my seat to try to dispel some of my discomfort, Remy tilts his head.

“You could organize this place.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“The office. That’s what you do, right? Labels and boxes and whatnot?”

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