Chapter Two
Corbin
I’ve been sitting in front of Jules’ coffee shop for the past hour, trying to work up the nerve to go inside.
She said she’d stay for breakfast. But then she slipped out the first chance she got.
The look on Tate’s face when I told him she had an unexpected call and couldn’t stay? Vexing, to say the least.
Jules is flighty and disorganized. She loses track of time, misplaces her keys, and leaves paint-streaked coffee mugs in the oddest places.
She doesn’t like confrontation. Or black coffee.
She likes dance parties in the kitchen and creamer with a splash of coffee.
Bonus points if there’s whipped cream and sprinkles on top.
Her world is magical. Mine is mundane.
That’s one of the many reasons I fell in love with her. She was free and fun, whereas I’ve always been focused and flat.
When we were married, we balanced each other out.
I made her more responsible. She made me remarkable.
I felt like I could conquer the world when she loved me.
But the day she stopped? I knew I couldn’t cage her in any longer.
I didn’t want to dim her creativity or force her to conform to my expectations. Or anyone else’s for that matter.
I wanted her to be happy.
I still do.
When she knocked on my door last night, I couldn’t resist inviting her in. Couldn’t resist offering her a glass of wine from the bottle I’d just opened. Couldn’t resist running my fingers through her hair as she talked to me about expanding the coffee shop. About her dreams. About life.
I haven’t been privy to those details for the past two years.
I just couldn’t resist.
I didn’t expect her to kiss me. Didn’t expect her to keep kissing me, even as she mumbled that we should stop. And then she was in my bed. And I—
My phone dings.
I run a hand over my face, exhaling slowly.
Susan .
She’s been blowing up my phone since she unexpectedly showed up at the house this morning.
Which makes no sense. We’ve gotten a drink once, maybe twice.
We’re not dating. We’re co-workers. The only reason she knows where I live is because she had to drop off a time sensitive contract a few weeks ago.
I shove my phone into the glovebox and open the car door.
I know Jules hates confrontation, but we need to talk about last night.
The coffee shop is packed.
I step inside, scanning the room for Jules, but I don’t need to look far. Her laugh carries across the space, warm and easy, cutting through the low hum of conversation and the steady whir of the espresso machine.
She’s at the other end of the bar, passing drinks across the counter, smiling in that way that’s always been unfairly disarming.
I should have expected this. Jules in her element. Thriving. Alive.
She never did fit inside the neat, carefully labeled boxes of my world. That was always the problem.
I elbow my way through the crowd until I’m standing in front of her.
She glances up, barely missing a beat as she hands a cup to a waiting customer. Then her gaze lands on me.
Something flickers in her eyes. Annoyance? Amusement? A mix of both?
“What do you want?” she asks, arching a brow.
“We need to talk.” My eyes drift to the top of her head. Ribbons and flowers are interlaced with her gorgeous curls. Curls I want to run my fingers through over and over again. “Why are you wearing a flower crown?” I ask, curious.
Jules scoffs. “Because it’s Wednesday, Corbin.”
That… explains nothing.
I exhale, shifting my weight. “Is there somewhere quiet we can talk?”
“I’m busy.” She presses her lips together, hands off another drink, then lifts her chin. “Connie!”
A barista appears at her side, also wearing a flower crown.
I blink. “You’re wearing a flower crown.”
Connie sizes me up. “Yeah. It’s Wednesday.”
I glance between them. “That doesn’t clarify anything.”
Jules sighs, giving me a look that says I am the least fun person alive. “It means we’re busy. Let’s talk later.”
That’s code for never.
I inhale sharply. “Julianne.”
She tenses, just barely. She hates when I call her that.
“Fine,” she exhales, tossing a towel onto the counter. “Sarge! Can you cover the bar for me?”
I stiffen at the name before turning. Her brother is standing by the espresso machine, arms crossed, already glaring.
Perfect.
“What’s he doing here?” he asks, his voice sharp.
Jules doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s about Tate.”
She’s lying, and he knows it. But after a long moment, he jerks his chin. “Five minutes.”
I follow her into a small back office. The door clicks shut behind me, leaving us in silence.
“What do you want, Corbin?” Jules turns, crossing her arms.
The soft pink dress she’s wearing flows around her, but I know what’s underneath. I know the curve of her hips. The smooth plane of her stomach. The way her breath catches when I—
I force the thought away.
“You left.”
Her arms tighten over her chest. “I told you I had to go.”
I shake my head. “Come on, Jules. You told Tate you’d stay. Then you left.”
Her jaw clenches. “You mean I left when your girlfriend showed up?”
I exhale through my nose. “Jules—”
“No, you don’t get to act surprised.” Her voice lowers, her frustration curling around every word.
“I’m not interested in sitting at your kitchen table, eating breakfast with you, our son, and the woman you’re seeing.
Especially after we… after we…” Her words trail off, but I know where she’s going.
“I didn’t know Susan was stopping by.”
She lets out a sharp breath, turning away.
“I told her she’s not allowed to unexpectedly stop by the house,” I add. “She’s just someone I get drinks with on occasion. It’s nothing serious.”
Jules snorts. “Does she know that? Because it didn’t seem that way.”
I don’t answer.
“Listen,” she sighs, rubbing her forehead. “Last night was a mistake.”
My stomach tightens. “It wasn’t a mistake to me,” I say quietly.
Her shoulders go rigid. “You’re seeing someone, Corbin.”
I step closer. “You think I planned for this to happen?”
Her throat bobs. “I think you should go.”
“I think we need to talk about Tate.” My patience is fraying.
Her expression softens. Barely. “I’ll handle it. I’ll tell him I had a meeting. He’ll understand.”
I exhale slowly, dragging a hand over my jaw. She’s pulling away. And I should let her.
Let her go, Corbin .
I nod. “I’ll go.”
Relief flashes across her face, but it’s tinged with something else. Guilt, maybe. I don’t want to analyze it.
“Is it alright if I order a coffee before I do?” I ask, shifting the conversation. “With everything that happened this morning, I haven’t had a chance to—”
“Yeah.”
She opens the door, stepping out first. I let out a slow breath before following her to the counter.
“Can we get a Serial Killer on the house?” she calls to the barista.
I arch a brow. “Serial Killer?”
Jules smirks. “Black coffee. A serial killer’s beverage of choice. Don’t you keep up with statistics on criminals, Corbin?”
A reluctant chuckle slips out before I can stop it.
Damn her.
Her quick wit. Her sharp tongue. The way she always knew how to make me laugh. Just enough to keep me on edge.
Our fingers graze as she hands me the cup, and electricity snaps through the contact. Her breath hitches. For a fraction of a second, we aren’t exes. We’re just Jules and Corbin. And I know I should say something.
But instead, she clears her throat. “Have a good day, Corbin.”
Her voice is steady. Controlled. Like she’s willing herself not to break.
I swallow the words I want to say. The ones that might make this harder.
“You too,” I murmur, stepping back, wishing—for the first time in years—that I could stay.
When I reach my car, the cell phone I shoved into the glove box is vibrating. Guess I can’t avoid the inevitable forever.
I exhale and pull it out, answering without checking the screen. “Hello?”
A pause. Then a woman’s voice. “Is this Mr. Banks?”
Something in her tone makes my grip tighten on the steering wheel.
“Yes,” I say, placing my coffee in the cup holder.
“This is Georgie Whitney, the assistant principal at Sacred Heart Elementary.” A beat. “There’s been an incident involving your son, Tate.”
A sharp pang twists in my gut.
“What happened?” It comes out steady, but the question punches out of me too fast.
“Tate got into a scuffle with a classmate,” she explains. “Would it be possible for you to come down to the school right now?”
I run a hand through my hair. “Yeah.”
There’s a hesitation. “Tate is asking for his mom.”
My chest tightens.
“We tried getting ahold of her,” she adds, “but the line kept ringing.”
Jules’ phone is probably buried under a pile of flower crowns or sitting next to an empty coffee mug she forgot she left somewhere.
I inhale sharply. “I’ll make sure we’re both there.”
***
Jules’ knee bounces beside me as we sit in the main office, her flower crown slightly askew. I don’t think she realizes she’s doing it. Or that she’s twisting the hem of her dress, wringing the fabric between her fingers. Or that she hasn’t taken a full breath since we walked in.
I want to reach for her hand, still her movements, settle her, but I keep my hands in my lap. I’m not sure she’d want me to touch her right now.
“Mr. and Mrs. Banks?” A middle-aged woman calls from the hallway.
Jules shoots to her feet before I can even react, hand raised. “That’s us.”
I don’t miss the way she practically vibrates with nerves.
“Please follow me,” the woman says, offering a sympathetic smile.
“What happened?” Jules inhales sharply as we step into the hall.
I place a hand on her lower back—a steadying touch, nothing more—as the woman leads us toward an open office.
“Wait in here,” she instructs. “Mrs. Whitney will be in shortly to explain everything.”
“When can we see Tate?” Jules and I ask at the same time.
“He’ll be in with Mrs. Whitney,” she assures us. “He’s in the nurse’s office right now, but he’ll be done soon.”