Page 4 of Hearts and Hidden Secrets

Those hopes had faded lately. Once upon a time, my feelings for Luka had been as vibrant as a rainbow, iridescent strokes in a blue sky. Now they were hazy, like a fog had rolled in and cast everything in gray.

So now he was just my friend. A coworker. A roommate.

At twenty-eight, living with a roommate wasn’t ideal.

But Bozeman real estate was ridiculously expensive, and I was on a teacher’s salary.

Some of the other single teachers lived in neighboring towns where rent was cheaper, but I didn’t want a thirty- or forty-minute commute on icy winter roads.

Plus, I loved Bozeman. It was trendy and charming.

So two years ago, when I’d gotten sick of living in a college neighborhood, dealing with keg parties and midnight antics, Luka and I had moved in together.

Our two-bedroom house was in downtown Bozeman, in a neighborhood full of young families and single retirees. Most people assumed Luka and I were a couple.

I liked that. Or I had, once.

The neighbors who did think we were together had clearly missed the unending stream of women that flowed in and out of Luka’s bedroom. Either he was just that good about sneaking his hookups in and out of the door, or they thought he was a pig cheating on me.

Maybe both.

Sooner rather than later, I needed to move.

With every passing day, I itched to change my address.

This living arrangement was only supposed to be temporary until I saved up some cash for a down payment on my own place.

Splitting bills with Luka, the cheap rent, meant that with every paycheck, my savings account was growing.

But my balance just wasn’t enough. Not yet.

I parked my mint-green Jeep Wrangler on the street outside the house, then I looped my grocery bags over my forearms and made my way inside, stomping the snow off my shoes in the entryway.

“Della?” Luka called. “That you?”

“Who else would it be?” I asked, shuffling to the kitchen, plopping bags on the counter.

He rounded the corner from his bedroom dressed in a pair of gray sweats and a Montana State University hoodie. “How was the store?”

“Fine.” I unbagged a bunch of bananas, setting them on the counter while he put a carton of eggs and a bag of shredded cheese in the refrigerator.

We worked in tandem, emptying the bags. Two people who’d lived with each other for years. Two people who’d known each other long enough to feel entirely comfortable in our bubble.

Maybe too comfortable. Too stagnant.

“No condoms?” he asked, peering in the last plastic sack.

I rolled my eyes. “You’re exhausting.”

He chuckled. “But you love me anyway.”

“Love?” Yes. In the past. But now? “Maybe. Maybe not.”

He smiled wider. It had become this little game of mine, letting my inner thoughts come loose, just to see if he realized they weren’t as sarcastic as I made them out to be.

“How much do I owe you?” he asked.

I plucked the receipt from my purse and handed it over.

He did the quick math, then went to the whiteboard we’d hung on the wall, adding forty-seven dollars and sixteen cents to his column. As part of our living arrangement, we’d decided to split utilities and food equally.

Like we were a couple. That whiteboard had become a constant reminder of what we shared. And what we didn’t.

But we weren’t a couple. He’d made that clear.

“Okay, I’m going to change and then—” Before I could offer to make dinner, the front door opened.

“Luka?” A female voice drifted from the entryway.

My eyes shot to his.

He just shrugged and went to meet his guest.

No wonder he’d called out for me. He’d been expecting someone else.

A leggy blond with striking blue eyes stood at his side when he returned to the kitchen.

“Oh, uh, hi.” She gave me a finger wave with the hand not linked with Luka’s. God, she was young. Probably a senior in college.

“Hi.” Why hadn’t I grabbed a bottle of wine at the store?

Luka didn’t bother introducing her, if he even remembered her name. He just jerked his chin to the hallway, his silent cue that they were disappearing to his bedroom.

My stomach knotted as they vanished. The dull click of his door echoed down the hall, followed by her muted giggle.

They always giggled.

When would this stop bothering me? When was I going to get over him?

Another giggle.

“Not today,” I muttered, sweeping my purse from the counter. Then I walked to the door, slamming it too hard before I stomped to the Jeep.

So much for dinner at home. At least I had a good alternative.

On nights when Luka and his sexcapades drove me from the house, I retreated to my favorite café in Bozeman.

The Maysen Jar.

My junior year at Montana State, when I’d been buried beneath a mountain of credits, I’d struggled to find a place to study.

The library had lost its appeal when I’d found Luka and another girl from the education program making out on the third floor.

So I’d decided to break free from campus and find a place of my own.

Three coffee shops later, I’d been about to suffer at the library, but then I’d stumbled upon The Maysen Jar. I’d been coming back ever since.

After parking the Jeep, I made my way inside the restaurant, breathing in the scent of cinnamon, sugar and vanilla.

The building itself had once been a mechanic’s garage, until Poppy Goodman—Maysen, until she’d married her husband—took the place and transformed it into a charming café.

The red brick walls stretched to the ceiling, the ductwork exposed to give it an industrial flair.

The original garage doors had been replaced with a row of tall black-paned windows.

My shoes, wet from the snow outside, squeaked on the hickory herringbone wood floor as I made my way down the center aisle, passing black tables and chairs filled with happy customers.

“Hey, Della.” Poppy waved from behind the counter at the back of the café. Her smile was contagious. An instant mood lift.

“Hi.” I pulled out a wooden stool, taking a seat beside her daughter, leaning over my former student’s shoulder to see what she was studying. Math. I nudged her elbow with mine, earning a smile as bright as her mother’s.

MacKenna plucked out her earbuds and stretched out her arm for a sideways hug. “Hi, Miss Adler.”

“Hey. Heard you had a pop quiz in math today.”

“Yeah.” She groaned, tucking a lock of loose, brown curls behind her ear. “Mr. Hollister.”

Luka wasn’t exactly beloved by his students. Not that he seemed to care. If he did, well…he hadn’t shared those feelings with me. Maybe he preferred to confide in the blond during their postcoital pillow talk.

I fought a lip curl, focusing on MacKenna. “Hanging with your mom tonight?”

“Yeah. Dad took Brady to basketball.”

Poppy’s husband, Cole, was a cop in Bozeman. Their son Brady was still in fifth grade, but I was keeping my fingers crossed that I’d have him in my class next year.

MacKenna had been my favorite student last year. Like Katy Dawson was this year. And I had a hunch Brady would be next.

“Can I get you anything, Della?” Poppy asked.

“Surprise me.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. I tried something tonight and MacKenna agreed to be my test subject. But I always love more opinions.”

“You know I’ll always be a test subject.” It wasn’t the first time she’d let me eat one of her experiments. They were always delicious and always ended up on the menu.

“They’re in the back oven. I’ll check if it’s ready.” Poppy held up a finger, then turned and disappeared through the swinging door that led to the kitchen, her sleek red ponytail swishing across her back.

“Okay, so what are we working on?” I leaned my forearms on the counter, inching closer to MacKenna to see what homework she was tackling.

The two of us powered through not only her math assignments from Luka but also her social studies homework and her latest grammar worksheet from her seventh-grade English teacher—her most boring teacher, MacKenna’s words, not mine.

While we worked, we ate Poppy’s latest creation, a vegetable lasagna with a creamy white sauce that was, as expected, perfection.

Time passed in a blur and when I finally left them to close the restaurant for the evening, I felt lighter.

Only that lightness was short-lived. With every block closer to home, unease twisted my stomach.

Luka’s date would be gone, right? He rarely let them spend the night.

Regardless, it shouldn’t be like this. A woman shouldn’t dread going home because her roommate was screwing his latest conquest.

I parked in my usual spot in front of the house. Since it was Luka’s house, he parked in the garage. My Jeep was alone on the street, and fingers crossed, that meant his guest was gone. Bracing for giggles or the sound of his headboard smacking the wall, I inched through the front door.

Luka lounged on the living room couch, phone in hand, dressed in the same sweats from earlier. His hair was damp.

He liked to shower immediately after sex.

“Didn’t mean to chase you from the house.” He gave me an apologetic smile. “She left.”

“It’s fine.” I waved it off. Was it fine?

Maybe. Maybe not.

A year ago, I would have retreated to my room to wallow. Five years ago, there would have been tears. But tonight, I just didn’t have the energy. So I made my way to the couch, sinking into the buttery leather and pulling a throw across my lap before snagging the remote.

“I was going to use that blanket,” he said.

“Snooze, you lose, Hollister.”

He chuckled as I turned on the television. “Nothing girly.”

“We’re watching The Parent Trap . The original with Hayley Mills.”

Luka hated this movie. But like his pop quizzes, it was my form of torture.

He felt guilty for the blond, so he’d stay on this couch and watch until the credits rolled.

And tomorrow morning, he’d go out early and scrape the Jeep’s windshield of ice for me.

He’d be up early to work out at the gym, then he’d come back and make us both lunches.

Was that why I hadn’t moved yet? His considerate touches always seemed to reel me in. That, and maybe I was scared to spend my nights on a couch alone.

None of it mattered. Not a little bit. Because I was not a woman in Luka’s fantasies. He’d starred in my fantasies for a decade, yet I’d barely been a side character in his.

Dreams of Luka came less and less these days. Instead, I dreamed of a faceless man who cherished me wholly. A man who was considerate. Sweet. Maybe a man who was just as tall. Just as handsome.

And while I was pulling items from the dream-guy menu, I wanted him to have an ass like Jeff Dawson’s.