didn’t wait for a response, but walked past him, hating the way her body longed to be held in his arms.
Hating the way her life was once again in turmoil because of Jordan Thomas.
* * *
Mila got up at five in the morning, her muscles hard with tension after a restless night. She got dressed and did the thing that always helped to keep her mind busy—she cooked. First she made a batch of scones and then muffins and pancakes. When that was done she scrambled eggs, made bacon and toast, and eventually, as the sun peeked through the kitchen windows, put on the kettle for coffee.
‘What’s all this?’
The deep voice startled her, even though she knew he was there. She supposed she had already grown so used to being alone in the months since Greg had been gone—her heart ached at the reminder—that anyone’s presence, let alone that of the man who unsettled her most in the world, would have frightened her in the quiet of the morning.
‘Food,’ she said, and wiped her hands on her apron. She stilled, thinking that it made her look nervous. ‘I’m going to take it down to Frank and Martha’s.’
Frank was the kind-hearted man who’d helped manage the vineyard after Greg had taken ill and Jordan had moved away. She had a soft spot for him and, since cooking was something she did to keep herself calm, often took food to Frank and his wife, Martha’s house on the Thomas property to share with the workers at the vineyard during the day.
Though now Mila supposed she should offer some to Jordan. Except that would make it seem as if she had got up that morning specifically to cook for him. Just as she had when they were married. So she wouldn’t offer him breakfast, but would wait until later to pack up the food and let him get breakfast for himself.
Satisfied with the decision, she asked, ‘What time is the appointment?’
To avoid his gaze, she turned to make herself coffee. But she stopped when she realised she was about to take out two mugs, her mind already making his as he liked it. So she turned back to him and folded her arms, ignoring the way the sight of his hair, wet from a shower, made her body prickle.
‘Eight thirty.’
‘In less than an hour,’ she confirmed, proud of the fact that her voice wasn’t as shaky as she felt. ‘I’ll go and get ready.’
She nearly ran out of the kitchen, but acting normally was eating at her strength. The last time she had been in that kitchen with Jordan she had been pregnant and happy, with the only true family she’d known—her husband and her father-in-law—around her.
The loss of it all was a physical pain.
She bided her time so that she didn’t have to have breakfast with him, only coming out when they had to leave. Her eyebrows barely lifted at his choice of transportation—a sleek blue car she knew was a recent and expensive model—but her heart thawed when he opened the door for her.
The trip was silent and tense, but she consoled herself by repeating that it would be over soon. If she signed her share of the vineyard, of the house, over to Jordan she would be able to move out and move on. It would mark the end of the worst and best years of her life and, though her heart was nostalgic for the best, the worst was enough that if she could, she would sign the papers right there in the car.
When Jordan gave his name to the receptionist at the lawyer’s, they were shown into an office where Mila spent another ten minutes of tension with Jordan while waiting for the lawyer to come.
‘Good morning, Jordan... Mila.’
Mark spoke softly to her and she gave him a small smile. She had only met him twice—once when she’d signed a prenuptial contract, and again after Greg’s death when Mark had come to give his condolences and to drop off her copy of the will. Both times he had been kind, and she’d appreciated that.
Jordan barely waited until Mark was seated before he asked, ‘What was going on in my father’s head when he made this will, Mark?’
Mark gave him a wry smile. ‘I think you would be a better judge of that than me.’
When Jordan didn’t return the smile, Mark nodded, apparently realising Jordan was only in the mood for business.
‘Well, you’ve both read Greg’s will by now. It’s actually quite simple in its conditions—which I know you both must find hard to believe, considering what it’s asking of you. You already own half of the Thomas Vineyard, Jordan, having inherited your mother’s share of the property when you were twenty-one. Greg’s half has been left, as he states in his will, to his son and his daughter-in-law, on the condition that you both work together to plan an...’
Mark paused and took a closer look at the will.
‘An Under the Stars event. Instructions have been left regarding the nature of the event—which, again, both of you will have read—and this event has to take place no later than two months after the last of you received a copy of the will.’
‘I received mine two weeks ago,’ Jordan interrupted, looking at Mila for confirmation of her date.
‘I probably got mine a week before that,’ she said, and wished her heart wouldn’t beat quite as hard.
‘Which would mean that we have just over a month to plan this. If we do,’ Jordan said, his voice masking all emotion.
‘Honestly, Jordan. I don’t see you having a choice if you want to keep the vineyard solely in your family. If you don’t plan the event, your father’s share of the vineyard will be auctioned off and the proceeds will be divided between the both of you.’
‘Excuse me, Mark?’ Mila said, ignoring the way her stomach jolted as Jordan’s eyes zoned in on her. ‘The will says that I’ve been left half of Greg’s portion as his “daughter-in-law,” right?’ When Mark nodded his head, she continued. ‘So, since Jordan and I aren’t married any more, won’t that give Jordan grounds to contest the will?’
And leave me out of it?
Mark’s eyebrows rose. ‘When did you get divorced?’
‘About a year ago.’ Jordan spoke now, and his eyes were hopeful when Mila lifted her own to look at his face.
She knew that she shouldn’t take it personally—if Greg’s will could be contested they would both get what they wanted—but her heart still contracted.
She diverted her attention to Mark, saw him riffling through the papers in front of him, and felt concern grow when he lifted one page, his face serious.
‘Is there a problem?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid so.’ Mark looked at them both and laid the page back down. ‘Before we send the beneficiaries copies of a will, we check all the details we can for accuracy. Your marital status was one of them and, well...’ He gave them both an apologetic look. ‘According to the court records of South Africa, the two of you are still very much married.’
THE SILENCE THAT stretched
