“You totally bailed on Cole and Gerald.”
James pursed his lips. He took off his ball cap and combed his fingers back through his thick brown hair. His colorful sleeve of tattoos flashed vividly. “They’ve got it handled. Cole managed to fry up eggs and sausage and sweet-talk Harmony into staying at the table. She smeared bananas all over the place, but she ate and not one of us said a word about the mess.” He pulled off his sunglasses and began to clean them with the edge of his shirt. “Then there’s Gerald.” He sent Olivia an impressive look. “It’s only three weeks in, but the man’s earned all the daddy badges there are to earn. Burping, changing, rocking. It’s like watching the Daddy Olympic games.”
“And Kyle?” Adrian asked, referring to her and James’s eight-year-old son.
“I helped him and Gavin haul the crab traps out of the water,” James told her, replacing his sunglasses and hooking a meaty arm through the open window. “Then I offered to let them tag along. But they wanted to stay behind and get to know their catch before we release them back into the wild. I expect all the crabs’ll be named after Marvel villains before we get back.”
“We?” Olivia asked. “Think again, mister. Your woman here doesn’t need rescuing.”
James tilted his head at his wife. The corner of his mouth moved. It was a nonverbal come-hither that nearly made Roxie’s weary feet move in double-time. “I could persuade her. It’s not rescuing if there’s persuasion involved. Ain’t that right, lil’ mama?”
Adrian looked as if she were fighting laughter. Warmth flooded her features. She walked to the open window and angled her face up to his. “Any other day, you wouldn’t have had to stop. You could’ve just slowed down, and Roxie and I would’ve jumped into the backseat and you’d be peeling out of here.”
“Cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater,” Olivia rhymed, polishing off the remnants of the éclair.
Though his chin came to rest on his folded arms, James eyed Olivia over the crown of Adrian’s head. “Isn’t it ‘Peter, Peter?’”
“You need to take your peter home,” Olivia informed him, crude. She brushed her hands together to remove the icing. “Save it for your redhead later.”
“Hey,” James said, feigning offense on behalf of his redhead and his privates.
The redhead in question grabbed him by the bill of his cap. “She’s right. Get your fine ass back to the inn and stay there. A little baby time won’t kill you.”
James’s jaw moved though he didn’t look entirely dissatisfied. “The pink one puked on me.”
“They’re both pink.” Adrian grinned.
“Okay, the loud one puked on me.”
Roxie began to cross to the Jeep. “What’s wrong, James? You don’t like babies?”
“He loves babies,” Adrian said, patting his arm. “He’s just never been around them. Go. If you change one of them, I’ll give you a cookie.” Her brows quirked. “A very...hot...cookie.”
His brows rose over the rim of his glasses and he reached over to put the Jeep in gear. “I heard that.”
She leaned up to plant a kiss on him. Roxie found herself sighing a little as the man kissed his wife with all the abandon of a person still completely and hopelessly lost over another. Apparently the romantic in her hadn’t been completely ripped up from the roots. Perhaps she did still believe in love. Being surrounded by committed couples that had managed to find happiness despite daunting odds—Briar and Cole, Olivia and Gerald, Adrian and James—certainly helped.
She wasn’t a quitter. She never had been. And she’d never not been a romantic. It was natural, even inevitable, that she’d reached the point of questioning whether she needed to explore an alternate ending for the marriage she’d desperately wanted in the first place—the marriage she’d idealized.
Olivia’s voice pealed over the newlyweds’ exchange. “Hey!” she said to Roxie. “Where’re you going?”
Roxie dodged around the Jeep’s grille. She wasn’t a quitter. Nope. She wasn’t a sprinter either. “Somebody’s gotta ride shotgun.” Lowering her voice through the passenger window, she added to James, “I change the diaper, you get the credit. Just get me out of here.”
“I heard that,” Adrian pointed out.
James reached over the passenger seat to pop the lock. “Hop in, sugar.”
Roxie felt her phone vibrating on her hip. Holding up a finger for James, she pulled it from the waistband of her leggings. The caller ID was listed as unknown. She answered it anyway. “Hello?”
“Is this Roxie Honeycutt?”
“Speaking,” Roxie replied.
“Hi! This is Vera Strong. I believe you know my son, Byron.”
Oh, what fresh hell is this? The blood drained from Roxie’s face. “I did not sleep with him!” she blurted then clamped her hand over her mouth.
There was a slight pause then a friendly chuckle. “I’m happy to hear it, dear. I’m calling because he’s under the impression that you’re looking for a new place to live.”
For a moment, Roxie was confounded. Then she remembered the brief exchange she’d had with Byron before he left her apartment yesterday morning. He’d admired the view from the windows. She’d admitted that she was looking for a change of scenery. He’d had a hard time imagining better scenery than what she had already. Roxie had told him about her new mantra—New Year, New Roxie. Which all started with finding a new place to live. Something that might begin to erase the hollow feeling that had moved into the apartment with her and refused to depart despite repeated attempts at eviction.
What was wrong with the old Roxie? he’d asked.
That had stuck with her. And the kiss.
It was difficult to forget a kiss, especially a kiss from someone...well, someone like Byron. She’d spent more time than she’d like to admit trying not to think about how sweet it was—she’d forgotten kisses could be so sweet. And she’d tried especially to forget how his lips had lingered. And how in lingering he’d awakened starbursts. Small starbursts of eternity.
Roxie frowned deeply. Being touched... It had been so long since she had really been touched. The emptiness in her had turned into a resounding ache at his contact, and for a few moments, she’d considered bringing Byron’s mouth back down to hers. For a few moments, she’d craved more than his companionship. She’d craved the contact. The promise of heat that came with it.
But had she wanted it for the single reason that his heat could erode her loneliness? There was trust there. There was affection. For those small starbursts of eternity, there had been longing and the promise of flame. It had been so long since she’d felt the sheer electrical pulse of new chemistry.
But why did it seem like so long since she’d felt the flame? The passion?
Had she wanted Byron for the promise of passion? Had she wanted him because she was lonely—because she missed someone else?
She
