Apparently, those sweet, simple words are exactly what I need to hear because before I know it, the freak-out that’s building inside of me recedes away. I answer him with the first thing that comes to mind.
“Apple fritters.”
JT props his head in one hand, a lazy smirk on his face. “That was quick. You didn’t even have to think about it.”
I feel my cheeks heat a little. “The morning after our first night together, when I woke up and realized you were gone, it bummed me out. Even though I knew I shouldn’t expect to have breakfast with my one-night stand, I still had this thing about wanting to go get apple fritters together.”
I cut an embarrassed look JT’s way and find him staring at me the way Alec looks at Tara all too often: like I’m the best thing he’s ever laid eyes on.
I clear my throat. “So I want what I didn’t get then. A big cup of coffee and an apple fritter. Or maybe three apple fritters.”
JT kisses my shoulder, my forehead, and each corner of my mouth.
“Then I’m on it. The apple fritters are yours, beautiful.”
15
JT
I’m not a doughnut guy. Most of the time, I can take or leave them, and apple fritters aren’t even my first choice if and when I decide to have one. But this morning I’m indulging. Indulging in everything that makes Anya happy, and she wants apple fritters, then I’m going to get them for her.
Making my way back from the local doughnut shop, I have two large cups of coffee in the console and a half dozen apple fritters sitting in a box on the passenger seat. I’d gotten to the store just as they brought out a batch fresh from the fryer so I’m trying to get home before they cool off completely. A few traffic rules may have been broken along the way but I don’t care. I want a front-row seat to watching Anya enjoy her first few bites, and if the fritters are still warm, I think it’s going to be even better that way. If it didn’t sound a little fetish-y, I’d consider dragging her back to bed and feeding her the damn fritters.
Back at the house, I pull in the driveway, grab one coffee in each hand, then balance the box of doughnuts on top, and head for inside with what I’m sure is a stupid-looking grin on my face. But before I make it inside, I hear a car pull up behind me. The next thing I hear is the car’s horn, two little beeps that stop me dead in my tracks.
I pivot slowly, taking in the sleek red Audi idling with a quiet purr at the bottom of the driveway, effectively blocking me in by the way it’s parked. A vague sense of claustrophobia crawls up my spine. Feeling boxed in is something I’m remember all too well, especially when my marriage ended, but I’d almost forgotten how it feels because I’ve gone so long without it.
I straighten my posture and approach the car warily. It’s been six months since I last saw Nicole in person—our spotty communications about the house always happen via text or email—so her unexpected arrival feels a lot like an ambush.
Nicole kills the engine and emerges from the car gracefully, like she’s starring in a car commercial instead of showing up uninvited at her former in-laws’ house. She’s nothing but lean, feminine muscle and smooth skin, wrapped up in a pair of low-rise leggings and a cropped yoga tank that barely covers her strappy sports bra. Her hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and her olive skin is highlighted by natural-looking makeup.
And yet, somehow she isn’t the mythical, powerful creature I used to bend over backwards for, trying to please her. Maybe it’s just the way our divorce made us both less attractive to each other, but if I’m being objective, she also looks more tired and thinner than usual—to the point it seems like the determined air she used to move through the world with is gone.
My brow creases. This part, concern for the woman I married, will probably never go away. Even if nothing inside me wants to be with her again, I think I might always have to fight the urge to fix it if I think she might not have what she wants. Thank God I still have some sense of self-preservation, though, because that alone stops me from asking her if anything is wrong.
Nicole rounds the car and props a hand on her hip, resting against the fender of the car.
“I come bearing good news. The kind that’s actually worth telling you in person,” she says.
Instead of continuing, she raises a brow, like she wants to make this a game instead of just telling me why she’s here. I clench my jaw. I’m not in the mood for this. It’s weird and uncomfortable, plus the window I have for serving up warm fritters to Anya is closing with every second I stand out here.
“And?”
Nic doesn’t miss the edge in my voice. Her eyes narrow. “Don’t you want to guess?”
“No,” I say. “Just tell me, Nic. I have plans.”
Her lip curls up as she flicks a pointed look at the box in my hands, which is decorated with dancing doughnut cartoons.
“It looks like your plans involve developing a serious heart condition.”
I don’t take the bait because I know better. I shift into Marshal mode and fall back on my interrogation skills by not saying a word.
She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Go get yourself a dad bod, see if I care.” She shakes her head and draws a hand down her ponytail to smooth it. “I came here to tell you that we finally have a real offer on—”
The door from the garage into the house swings open and Nicole immediately stops talking.
“Sweet Jesus, JT. Are you ever coming inside? You can’t promise a woman apple fritters, then make her wait this long.”
Anya reels to a halt midstep, a grin on her face as she takes me in. Her smile fades quickly, though, once she figures out that I’m not alone. “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize there was someone out here with you.” She glances from me to Nicole, and then waves a hand toward the door. “I’ll just go inside. Leave you to it.”
“Hold up,” I say quickly. “Here’s your coffee. Sorry if it’s cold now.”
She looks at the cup like she’s trying decide how badly she wants the caffeine, then finally takes it from me. That frees up one of my hands, which promptly I wrap around her shoulders.
“This is my ex-wife, Nicole,” I say, looking squarely at Nic, who isn’t bothering to hide her scowl. “This is Anya. We’ve been dating for a while now.”
Anya’s body tenses, but she still extends her hand to Nicole and the two of them exchanged a stiff, awkward handshake.
“Okay, then,” Anya mutters, slipping out of my hold. She reaches for the doughnut box. “I’ll just take those, if you don’t mind. It’s probably time for me to head back over to the house anyway. We’ll hook up later, if you have time.”
She’s trying to sound casual but I don’t buy it since her mouth is pressed into a flat line and she won’t look me in the eye. As much as I want to fix that by telling my ex-wife to hit the road, I know that isn’t a good idea. I hand the box to Anya but don’t let go when she tries to take it.
“Don’t eat those yet.” Anya frowns. I dip my chin and give her a pleading look. “Just wait for me, okay? Please?”
All I get is a nod. Then she’s headed down the driveway and starts across the street at a near jog. When I turn back to Nic, she gives me a triumphant little smirk, as if she just won some battle of feminine wiles. I keep my expression as neutral so that it’s clear I’m not interested in keeping score either way.