Chapter Thirty
Andrew
Poor Rosie. She was completely devastated, naturally. Any woman would be.
“Why didn’t Emma tell me, all this time?” Her voice vibrated with emotion. “How could she keep this a secret for a decade?”
“Because she was trying to protect you. That’s my guess, anyway.”
“I didn’t need protection. I needed the truth.”
“Why? What have you gained by knowing that your husband might have cheated on you?”
“Nothing,” she admitted, her voice edged with sorrow. “And I’m afraid I’ve lost so very much. I thought we had a perfect marriage.”
“There is no such thing as a perfect marriage. There are only imperfect people trying their best to make it work and hopefully
growing stronger together in the process.”
She sighed. “You’re right. I know you’re right. It’s easy when someone is gone from your life to idealize everything you had
together. Thank you for the reminder.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t mean to dump all this on you, but I’m actually glad I did.”
“Oh good. I hope this proves to you once and for all that not only have I talked to women before but I can sometimes offer a halfway decent shoulder for them to cry on.”
She gave a rusty-sounding laugh. “Absolutely. You’re a sensitive, compassionate person and writer. Believe me, I’ll tell everyone I know. Next time you overhear me talking about you in a bookstore, that’s probably exactly what I will be saying.”
They shared a laugh and he was relieved to see she seemed to have lost that haunted, lost look she had worn the entire drive
here.
“Good night, Rosie. Call me if you need to talk, even if it’s the middle of the night.”
“I will.”
To his surprise, she reached across the width of the vehicle and kissed his cheek. The intoxicating scent of her, citrus and
flowers and Rosie, tantalized him and the fierce desire to shift slightly for a real kiss almost overwhelmed him.
So much for being a sensitive male. She was going through a life crisis and all he could think about was pulling her into
his arms, tasting her sweet mouth again, feeling that petite, curvy body against his.
Could he be any more of a cliché?
He forced himself to ease away.
“You really have been lovely. You’re right, it helped that you don’t know any of the particulars or the people involved. Thank
you.”
“You’re welcome. Good night,” he said again. “Do your best to sleep. I know your brain will probably be going a million miles
an hour but you’ll be able to process all of this much better in the morning.”
“Good advice, but I doubt I’ll be able to follow it,” she answered.
He opened the car door, grateful for the misty rain that cooled his skin and his overheated imagination, and hurried toward
his temporary apartment, wondering how he had become so embroiled in her life—and why that didn’t bother him at all.