Page 26

Willow

I ended the call and huffed back on my bed, shutting my eyes for a moment and allowing my phone to land wherever.

When we returned from visiting Nana Jean, I chose to face my money problem head on, not to delay the inevitable.

I called my contact at the police to advise them of the financial abuse.

They’d added it to my case, but there wasn’t much of a chance I’d get my money back from Cain.

I couldn’t even confirm the balance, it had been so long since I’d checked.

Even admitting that out loud I felt like an idiot.

I’m pretty sure the officer thought the same, since he said, “You’ve not checked your account in how long? !”

Not the most helpful response when you’re already acutely aware of your idiocy.

My only saving grace was that the household bills had never been in my name.

Cain had never trusted me to manage them, he was far superior to me in every way, money management included.

I couldn’t even be sure that the money he had taken from my account went on bills.

It wouldn’t shock me if he’d had another life outside of us.

And despite all of the hurt he’d caused, I didn’t care. I just wanted to move on and be the Willow I’d craved to be for so long.

I pulled my work laptop out from underneath the bed and spent the next hour setting up a new account, taking extra precautions to prevent myself from ever being the victim of financial abuse again.

I’d made the same mistakes relentlessly with the hopes Cain would change.

I think I figured out a long time ago, that was unlikely to happen, and I hated that I’d become a cliche – staying in a declining relationship and listening to false promises.

I had to provide an address, which stumped me. Begrudgingly, I typed in Jack’s address, recognising it as the closest thing I could call a home. He’d given me a safe space, a haven to press restart.

After everything was set up, I snapped my laptop shut and rolled my neck, feeling the weight of the last eight hours sitting heavily on my shoulders.

My entire body felt heavy and achy, wrung out emotionally and physically.

I needed a break but that was never going to come, not for a long time anyway.

I opened the door of my bedroom to head downstairs and caught the warmth of a roast dinner filling my nostrils. A break might not be near, but a roast dinner had the uncanny ability to make everything feel a little bit better.

Before her death, Mum and I would visit Nana Jean every Sunday for a roast dinner, and after, we’d continue them every single week – a tradition to keep Mum alive. The smell grew stronger with every step I took, making me speed up until I was storming through the kitchen door.

The room was shrouded in steam as vegetables boiled on the hob. I could see multiple pots – one filled to the brim with potatoes, another with carrots, and one with some kind of beans.

Jack stood against the island with a mixing bowl in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other, vigorously beating the contents.

His cheeks were flushed, the humidity of the room and exertion of cooking caused him to work up a sweat.

His teeth bit into his bottom lip as he focused on the job at hand.

He looked different, more human, since he usually looked so calm and collected.

He grimaced at the contents of the bowl, before groaning and huffing, dumping the bowl on the counter with a loud clunk.

In his frustration, he turned from the island with his hands on his hips and let out a loud sigh, before finally noticing me at the door.

“You okay?” I forced my lips into a flat line to stop a smile from creeping up. Redness creeped up his face at the fact he’d been caught having a wobble. He cleared his throat.

“Uh yeah, sorry you saw that. I’ve made a Sunday roast.”

“But it’s a Wednesday.”

He cocked his head with surprise. “A Sunday roast can be made on any day.”

“Then it shouldn’t be called a Sunday roast.”

I slowly walked into the kitchen, looking at all the delicious food.

“I think we might have to agree to disagree on this one, Willow. Calling them a Sunday roast and having them on other days is my guilty pleasure.” His lips lifted at the sides, his eyes sparkled with amusement he was desperate to unleash.

“I’ll allow it, I guess. It looks good. What’s in the bowl?”

“Nothing,” he replied quickly, shifting to block the bowl as I moved around the island. Jack was embarrassed.

“Well, you slammed the bowl down pretty hard over nothing.” I tried to peek around his body to figure out the contents of the bowl, but failed, his arm firmly blocking it from view.

“ Please , Willow. I can’t have you finding out and realising my weakest link,” he moaned with his head slumped forward .

“Oh, now I’m dying to know. The great Jack Lambert has a flaw?” I finally shoved his tanned arm to one side and found a creamy, lumpy mixture. I raised an eyebrow at him in question and he let out a dramatic sigh from behind me.

“ Fine . For the life of me, I can’t make Yorkshire puddings. There. You have my flaw. Take it. Tell everyone.” He feigned theatrics as he hid his face in the crease of his elbow. Jesus Christ, had he always been this dramatic? It was as endearing as it was ridiculous.

“Okay, drama queen. It’s the same as a pancake mix, though.”

He dropped his elbow and glared at me.

“I know. And I can’t make pancakes.”

“You can’t make pancakes ?!” I squealed.

“What, and you can ?”

“ Yes ! I assumed everyone could!” We were now squeaking at each other in trying to prove our own points.

“Well, I can’t,” he huffed. “Frannie has always made our pancakes and Yorkshire puddings. I called her earlier to send me the Yorkshire pudding recipe,” he admitted sheepishly, avoiding my eyeline. “I still can’t get it bloody right. I just wanted to make you feel better.”

Oh, my poor battered heart.

“Oh Jack, thank you.” I placed a hand on his arm, his eyes watched as my fingers caressed his skin over the dark hairs. “This is a lovely gesture, but you don’t need to do anything extra to make me feel better. You already do.” He finally raised his gaze to mine and offered a soft smile.

All of a sudden, his eyes sucked me in, and I couldn’t escape them even if I wanted to. I’d always known he had hazel eyes, but now I was really looking, they were like woodland in autumn, a variety of browns and flecks of amber. They suddenly lit a fire, warmth zipping through me.

“Willow—” Jack cleared his throat, returning my attention to the moment. I ripped my hand away, eyes dancing around the kitchen, trying to regain composure.

“Yeah, sorry. I can make the Yorkshire puddings, if you’d like. You have everything else sorted.”

“I’d appreciate that, otherwise they may not make the cut for the meal and it’s no Sunday roast without a Yorkshire pudding.”

As I took the bowl to the sink to clean up and start the Yorkshire pudding mix again, I couldn’t resist a final dig.

“I think you mean a roast dinner,” earning me a barking laugh.