Page 37

KENTUCKY

THE NEXT DAY

NATALIA

I’m typing at lightning speed, trying to get to a good stopping place, when I hear a motorcycle coming up the road. My hands freeze and my eyes go wide.

I jump up and peek around the window’s edge. Into the driveway swoops a black BMW motorcycle, its rider unmistakable.

“Oh, of course you did,” I murmur under my breath. I wish the sight of those long, black-denim-clad legs as he dismounts didn’t set my heart racing, but… yeah. Dammit.

He removes a silver helmet and combs his hands through his hair.

Setting the helmet on the bike seat, he glances up at the sky as if to check for the threat of rain, then unzips the leather jacket he’s wearing.

It’s that vintage “café racer” style—form-fitting, standing collar, red stripes down the arms—and my knees practically go weak.

He shrugs it off and drapes it beside the helmet, then unbuttons and rolls up the sleeves of his white dress shirt as he strides up the walkway. I duck, afraid to be caught gawking.

I assess my outfit as I scurry into the hallway, second-guessing my decision not to dress up.

I’m in gray yoga pants and one of Auntie Min’s handmade granny-square sweaters.

My hair is a careless bun, and I have only a nod to makeup—just enough to look alert for the Zoom call I did earlier with a therapist specializing in post-incarceration patients, with whom I’m consulting on a chapter of the book.

The doorbell chimes, and when I open the door, Klaus is so picturesquely framed by the low, late-afternoon sun that it’s like a magical aura. Annoying. How is he always effortlessly delicious? My body strains to fly into his embrace like scrap metal hurtling toward an electromagnet in a junkyard.

I plant one hand on my hip and the other against the door frame in a pose of alleged ease, but it’s really to hide how I’m shaking. “Hey. Thanks for coming over.”

I’m trying for a cool, unruffled vibe, but I don’t know if it’s working. As wildly as my pulse beats in my throat, I wonder if he can hear it as a flutter in my voice.

He opens his arms. “May I?”

Oh God…

“Um. Okay, yep.” Next thing I know, I’m pressed against the wall of his chest.

He smells like heaven, and I can hear through his sternum that his pulse is as fast as mine. I squeeze my eyes shut. My hands open from their reluctant-fist position to lie flat against his lower back, and the simple warmth of him almost destroys me.

“ Hi ,” I manage in a breathy voice.

“Hello.” He lightly kisses the top of my head.

Pulling away, I step back and twist my hands together like a shy child. I finally remember myself and wave him in, darting past to close the door, then leading him to the living room.

He looks around before sitting on the sofa, and I perceive the house through his eyes.

It’s clean and cozy, but very much a time warp from the eighties: knickknacks, crocheted doilies and blankets, wall art that suddenly looks to me like budget motel décor, when an hour ago it was just the familiar framed landscapes I’ve seen since childhood.

I stifle the stupid urge to apologize for everything.

“Do you want anything?” I ask. Instantly I blush, thinking of a dozen cheeky answers, and quickly add, “Like water? Coffee or tea?”

“I’m fine, Talia.” With a soft smile, he gestures at the overstuffed chair perpendicular to the sofa, prompting me to sit with him. “It’s more than enough just to see you. It’s been too long.”

“Two and a half months,” I supply, purely for something to say. The tenderness in his expression is breaking my heart all over again, and his eyes are so dark I feel like I’m drowning if I look for too long.

He smooths a hand over his face with a helpless chuckle. “Forgive me for saying so, but nothing has made me this happy in all that time. Not even Cosmin’s wins at Spa and Monza. You’re… a treasured sight.” His smile fades, and a wrinkle of sorrow creases between his eyebrows before he looks away.

I give a comically self-deprecating glance at myself, wanting to make a joke about looking like crap, then remembering how much I’ve nagged Sherri about avoiding appearance-based comments.

“Thank you,” I say instead. “You, uh… you’re looking really well yourself.”

“Tired. But I appreciate the compliment.” He leans back. “There’s so much on which to catch up. How is the book going? And life with the family?”

“Good and good.” I chew at my lower lip. “I didn’t ask you here to chitchat, though.”

I can’t say it. I can’t say it. Maybe I should’ve waited until next spring to see him, so it would be obvious. But that’d be bad, right?

My hands tangle in my lap. “Sooooo… I’m pregnant.” I examine a chip in my peach nail polish as I listen for a reaction. Klaus has gone absolutely still. What will I see if I dare to look up?

“Oh, Talia.” There’s a brokenness in his voice, and it startles me into eye contact. He takes a deep breath as if struggling to master his emotions. “How far along?”

“Uh, two and a half months. You know, Budapest. The night we broke up.”

“How did this happen?” He rubs his face slowly with a long sigh.

I shoot a flat look at him. “I’m gonna assume that’s a rhetorical question. The usual way , obviously. I went to a drugstore the next day, but they were out of the morning-after pill. And I was very busy with work.”

Admit it, at least to yourself , I think. You were heartbroken, and a tiny part of you was somewhere between uncertain and… hopeful. Dying for a reason to quit that job and come home.

“I figured I’d deal with it back in London the next day.

” I focus on the ceramic flowers on the coffee table, avoiding his eyes.

“But I got waylaid with an unexpected assignment, and then it’d gotten to be too long for a pill to work, so I threw caution to the wind.

” I force myself to look up without seeming apologetic.

“And this is what the wind blew back at me.”

“At us .” His voice is so quiet.

I sit up, spine straight, defensive and alert as a meerkat. “We were both careless, and often, if that’s what you’re getting at. And to be clear: I’m not telling you about this because I expect anything.”

He studies me. “Expected or not, you’ll have everything you need or want. Surely you can’t think I’d do less? Talia, please… come here.”

Stretching to ask for my hand, he coaxes me to my feet and scoots to make room on the sofa.

His fingers shift to lace more closely with mine, but I slip out of his grasp, perching sideways, drawing my legs up and hugging my knees.

“This conversation isn’t an overture to get back together,” I say crisply. “I’m staying in Kentucky.”

A combination of confusion and… is it grief ?… darkens his expression. “Alexander Laskaris told me you’re returning to London next season.”

“I said I might be open to the possibility. But I’ve decided I’m staying here with my family.

” It sounds strange, saying it aloud for the first time: Family.

“I can tutor once I’m done with the book.

Everything’s remote nowadays, so I’m not limited to local students.

And ninety bucks an hour is good money.”

“Yes…” His tone is uncertain, and I’m not sure why.

“I have good support here,” I forge on, a little defensively.

“Free childcare if I need it. This is a nice place to grow up. There’s—” I break off and point at one wall as if he can see the end of town.

“There’s a farmhouse I’ve loved since I was a kid, and it’s for sale.

Needs a lot of remodeling, but… good bones, lots of promise. And I like a challenge. A fixer-upper.”

His eyes close for a beat. I know what he must be thinking: Our relationship was a challenge, a “fixer-upper” with lots of promise. I’m half hoping he’ll say it.

Why? I ask myself. So you can disagree? Or so he can change your mind?

His expression when his eyes open is something I’ve never seen.

I thought I knew all the “faces of Klaus Franke,” which are as deliberate as his clothing, wristwatches, and cuff links: the serious concentration of his team principal mask, the coy “smize” of his flirting, his stony “The matter is settled and we’ll say no more about it” face, the mocking amusement with his left eyebrow up and one corner of his lips quirked.

But something is different now; his armor is gone.

Emotions dance across the stage of his beauty.

I spot longing and tenderness, paired with bewilderment and fear.

I know him well enough to recognize how he’s trying to camouflage it all, like someone dashing around to secure a loose tarp in storm winds.

He gives up and cradles his face again with both hands before sliding them off. “Everything I want to say right now is a risk. I don’t know what I’m allowed to feel.”

“ Allowed? What are you even talking about?”

His look is bleak, his words measured. “I’m afraid of creating more distance between us through my ignorance if I say something unwise or unwelcome.”

Like Sherri and Jason, he’s so cautious, searching for a way in.

It’s messing with my Nice Girl self-image.

I’ve always been the person to put others at ease—the peacemaker, the self-sacrificer, reflexively accommodating.

Whatever made others happy was what I convinced myself I wanted too.

In my attempt to create boundaries, I’m digging a fire line around my life, but using new tools so sharp that I sometimes cut myself in the process.

I stare again into my lap, picking at the chipped nail polish. “Speak your truth,” I invite with a sigh, remembering when he asked the same of me that night in Santorini. “I’ll do the same.”

He’s silent for a minute. “I… I read ‘The Wife of Bath’s Tale.’”

Surprised, I meet his gaze, but it’s frustratingly neutral. “What did you think?”

“I got the message in less than a year and a day, unlike the fool in the story.”

“Tell me.”

His smile is a little chilly. “Said the queen to the disgraced knight.”