Crush(42)

Having realized this, I emerged, feeling like I could handle things better. My goal was right in front of me—bring them all down and close the door behind me.

“Want to talk about it?” Declan asked as he tied his boots.

I slipped a T-shirt over my head. “I was a dick to Elle this morning.”

He stood straight. “That’s what’s bothering you?”

I shook my head. “Yeah.”

“Look, man, that’s the one thing that has an easy solution.”

I furrowed my brows.

“You do what all groveling men do when they f*ck up.”

Shoving my feet in my sneakers, I glanced over at him, “And what would that be?”

He crossed his arms over his chest and laughed. “Come on, man. Don’t you watch the movies?”

My look was one of question.

Declan shook his head. “Buy her candy and flowers.”

This time I raised a brow. “That’s a little cliché.”

“Then do something sweet and romantic. Women can’t stay mad at a man for long when he gets all romantic on her.”

I shrugged. “Not really my thing.”

His quirked smile wasn’t making me feel any better. “Well, if you f*cked up, you better learn how to make it your thing or get used to sleeping on the couch.”

I winced at the thought.

“Trust me, man, and do it. Take it from someone who has way too many ex-girlfriends, if you don’t, she won’t be your girl for long.”

With a sideways glance, I considered what he said.





ELLE


I was ready to scream.

The day had been an endless parade of casseroles, neighbors, Michael’s colleagues, and I didn’t know who else.

It just all seemed so fake.

None of those people knew my sister.

Erin seemed to be doing a good job as hostess and was talking to just about everyone.

At seven thirty, I read Clementine a story and put her to bed. And then when I felt like I couldn’t take another moment of “I’m sorry for your loss” from another person who didn’t know my sister, I excused myself.

My fingers were just reaching for the handle of the door in the kitchen that led outside when a hand grasped them. “You’re Michael’s sister-in-law?” a man asked. It was the same man I’d seen with all the flowers in the driveway earlier.

Something about him seemed off and I didn’t look up. “Yes,” I answered.

“He is very fond of you.”

My eyes stayed trained to the floor. “We have a common goal of making sure Clementine is happy despite the sadness surrounding the death of my sister.”

“Hmmm . . . yes, the child.”

I didn’t like the way he’d said that. “Clementine,” I reaffirmed.

“Yes, Clementine.”

Chills ran down my spine. I didn’t like the way he’d said her name.

“Are you going outside?” he asked.

“No, I was just making sure the door was locked,” I lied and then stepped back, not sure why but knowing I didn’t want to be alone with him.

“Seamus.” Michael’s voice sounded like a warning.

The man turned and walked toward Michael. “There you are, we need to talk.”

With a deep breath, I tuned them out and went back into the living room, where I sat on the sofa and watched Michael and this man discuss something heated. When they went out the back door, I took advantage of the coast being clear.

Frazzled and done, I slipped out the front door without saying goodbye to anyone. Peyton was waiting for me outside and I didn’t want to chance another uncomfortable conversation with anyone today. I’d call Michael tomorrow and explain. Mental exhaustion had long since set in and I just wanted to go home. I needed to see Logan.

Peyton drove a silver Prius, and she had parked as close to the house as the trail of cars would allow. I walked down the sidewalk in my black pumps that were demanding to be taken off, and when I saw her flash her lights, I was thankful I didn’t have much farther to go.

Bracing myself for an onslaught of questions I didn’t want to have to answer, I swung open the passenger door and collapsed into the seat.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

The concern in her voice was hard to deny and it eased my agitation. “I will be. I just want to get home and out of these clothes.”

She pressed the gas and started driving. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I looked down at the new black trench I had bought—guaranteed to repel the rain—and surprisingly found myself wanting to tell her everything. “I do, Peyton, just not today.”

“Okay. No pressure from me,” she said.

Mascara came away on my fingertips when I rubbed my eyes, suddenly more tired than I’d felt in a very long time. To avoid the awkward silence, I simply said, “Like I said in my text, the new nanny’s car broke down and Michael needed his back.”

She nodded. “Yeah, I get it. He’s still an *.”

“Peyton, he’s not. He wants the nanny to be able to take Clementine where she needs to go. I get it. And besides, it feels wrong driving my dead sister’s car.”

The traffic was light but still she eased up on the gas, perhaps to give us more time. “As opposed to driving your drug addict sister’s car?”