Page 22 of Broken Dream

“But where’s the fun in that?” Eli walks into my living room. “Where should I put these?”

I gesture to the kitchen when the doorbell rings again. Pizza. I’ve got my food apps on the security list, so they don’t bother calling me each time.

I grab the three pies and bring them into my kitchen.

“Where’s your corkscrew?” Eli asks.

I open a drawer, fish it out, and hand it to him.

“You like red?” Ralph asks.

I glance at the bottles and widen my eyes. “Oh! Yeah, I love it. Would you believe my cousin makes this wine?” I peruse the label. Steel Vineyards Ruby. The wine is named for my uncle Ryan’s wife, Ruby Lee Steel. Uncle Ryan used to run the winery, but he retired, and now my cousin Dale runs it.

“Really?” Eli wrinkles his forehead. “You’re related to the Steel family?”

“Yeah.” I swallow. “Marjorie Steel Simpson is my mother.”

Ralph frowns. “Fuck me. That explains the gated community.”

I grab four wineglasses out of my cupboard, turning so they don’t see my eye roll. I get it. Ralph doesn’t like people with money. He sure seems happy to eat pizza on my dime, though.

When I turn back around, Eli has joined Tabitha in the family room, but Ralph is still in the kitchen, standing very close to me.

“Uh…did you need something?” I ask.

“Just this,” he says, and presses his lips to mine.

Chapter Eight

Jason

Once I’m back at my own place, I strip off my coat and gloves and turn on the gas fireplace.

I’m chilled.

But not so much from the weather.

From the effect Angie has on me.

I just visited the graves of my wife and daughter, and the guilt is still eating at me.

Only more so.

Angie’s a student.

And…

Angie’s not Lindsay.

I pour myself a glass of bourbon, the liquid burning a slow path down my throat. The guilt, the sorrow—none of it washes away.

The room is quiet except for the low hum of the gas fireplace and the clinking of ice cubes in my glass. My gaze falls on the picture of Lindsay and our daughter that sits on top of the mantel. A wave of melancholy washes over me.

They were my world once, and now they’re not.

Angie.

She’s not Lindsay, indeed.