Page 32

Stella

Breaking your own heart is a hell of a drug.

I’ve been pushing, pushing, pushing for the past month to stop myself from thinking about the reopened hole in my chest. The wound is worse this time, aching and oozing, threatening to poison me. But as long as I keep going, as long as the adrenaline never wears off, I’ll survive it.

Throwing myself into work was the easy thing to do. With the new store set to open by spring, the never-ending to-do list has kept me busy and given me a reason to avoid Thomas. I knew I was going to have to do it the second he kissed me goodbye in the Maldives and said we’d talk when we got home. If I didn’t, it was going to be game over for me—I was going to fall in love with him.

I was going to lose myself again.

I’ve escaped that fate by a hair. Then again, maybe I haven’t, if this hollowness in my stomach is anything to go by. I felt this way when étienne left, but not so acutely. I’m blaming the fact that I never fully healed from the first go-round, and this second fracture on top of everything has compounded it all. It’s no wonder every part of me feels wrong.

Dancing around Thomas has been torture, but it’s the only way to survive this. Gone are our easy connection and budding friendship. In their place are stilted conversation and overpoliteness. We feel more like strangers now than we did the night we met.

Maybe if he hadn’t left to see Lorenzo, if I’d told him to let the boy wait on us, things would be different. But I knew he had to go. That conversation was more important than anything he and I could have said to each other. And I knew we couldn’t renege on the deal we made to go back to following the rules, or else I never would have been able to pull myself back out of the warmth of being with him.

So I watched him walk away and let everything come crashing down.

Now we’re less than two weeks out from a wedding I’m not sure I want to have and I can barely look my husband in the eye. That won’t be good when we’re standing in front of the hundreds of people Thomas’s mother invited, including my entire family, who already think I got married for the wrong reason. Who’s going to believe we’re madly in love when we haven’t said much more than hey and see you later in weeks?

It’s going to be a disaster. I’ve started dodging Janelle’s and Mika’s calls just to avoid having to talk about the wedding and my feelings about it, let alone my feelings for Thomas. I don’t want to dig into it and face the possibility that I completely fucked up by putting distance between us. But what else was I supposed to do? Stick around and fall into the messiest situation possible? Let my heart guide me instead of my head?

Absolutely not. I did that once and it got me left at the altar. I’m not risking it again.

I may be avoiding my best friends, but when Amara texts me as I’m about to leave for my latest walk-through of the new Stella Margaux’s and asks what I’m up to today, I don’t hesitate to send her the address and tell her to meet me there.

We’ve talked about as much as Thomas and I have, which is to say not much at all. She, Joshua, and I all flew back to the UK together from the Maldives, but we’ve only exchanged a few texts here and there since, usually just holiday photos and memes we thought the others might find funny. Her reaching out feels like something I shouldn’t ignore.

“This place is gorgeous ,” Amara gushes as she turns around the space, neck craned to take in the nearly finished mural on the ceiling. “How do you manage to make all your stores look like a dreamscape?”

“I hire people with more creativity in their pinkie finger than I have in my entire body,” I reveal. “I tell them my ideas, and they bring them to life.”

All of the Stella Margaux’s locations have a similar vibe with their soft pastel decor, bespoke art reminiscent of Renaissance portraits, and pastry display cases where the sweets look like they’re floating on little clouds. I want anyone who steps inside to feel transported to somewhere magical and dreamy, maybe even a little otherworldly.

“Smart woman,” Amara commends as she lowers her chin to look over at me. “Thomas told me you’ve been working on the summer menu. Said he missed being your taste tester now that you’ve been working here instead of at home.”

I try not to wince at his name and the heavy-handed hints she’s dropping. I knew he’d come up in conversation eventually, but I hoped it would take slightly longer than this.

“Just finalized the menu, actually,” I say, choosing to ignore the mention of him. “I’ll send you home with some samples. There’s this key lime pie one that I know you’re going to love.”

“Thomas said his favorite was the blood orange and vanilla cream one.”

This time, the comment comes with a pointed look as she says his name. I can’t believe I had the nerve to think she reached out just to be friendly, because that’s not what this is. This is a fact-finding mission. And as much as I hate it, I respect it. I’d do the same for my friends.

I sigh and drop onto a plush powder-blue settee pushed against a wall. “We’re going to have to talk about him, aren’t we?”

Amara sits next to me, fingers playfully flicking my knee to get me to make room for her. “We wouldn’t have to if you talked to him yourself. But it sounds like you’re set on avoiding him.”

“I’m not,” I protest, even though we both know it’s a blatant lie. “I’m just busy, as you can see. This has been taking up all of my time.”

“So busy that you can’t say more than a few words to your husband ?”

I scrunch my nose, hating that she knows all of this, but she’s one of Thomas’s best friends. Of course he would have told her. If I weren’t avoiding the judgment of my own friends, I would have told them too.

“We don’t really have anything to talk about,” I say weakly. “We’re a strictly platonic married couple who live in the same house and have separate lives.”

“You’re a terrible liar, babe. Try again.”

Groaning, I let my head fall back against the wall. “Okay, fine. Thomas told you about our last night in the Maldives, right?” I wait until she nods, and my face goes hot at the idea of her knowing anything about my sex life, but I’m certain Thomas wouldn’t share any explicit details. “Well, we agreed beforehand that it was going to be a one-and-done situation, then we’d go back to following our rules. Which is exactly what we did.”

Amara assesses me, dark eyes narrowed. “And is that what you wanted?”

“It’s what we agreed to.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I bristle, tempted to tell her to mind her business. “Does it matter?”

Her furrowed brow softens. “Of course it matters. How do you feel about him?”

No one is forcing me to answer her questions, let alone tell the truth. But I’ve been pushing it down for too long and I’m ready to burst. “I like him, Amara,” I whisper. “A lot.”

She reaches over to squeeze my arm, pleased with my answer, though I know her blossoming smile is going to be wiped away when I finish my thought.

“But I can’t risk this all going wrong.” I swallow past the growing lump in my throat. “This marriage being anything but fake can’t happen.”

She draws her hand back like she’s been burned. “You’re taking the piss.”

“I’m completely serious,” I declare. “I had my entire life turned upside down by the last man I was with. If that happened again, especially so soon after, I don’t think I—” I cut off, choked by impending tears that I have to fight to keep back. “I don’t know if I’d ever be okay again. And I’m…scared. Fucking terrified, actually.”

Amara sighs softly before gathering her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She’s silent, letting my confession settle in the room with us, and stares up at the mural again. I join her in it, grateful for the distraction as I admire the amount of work the artist has put into it. They aren’t finished yet, but the work they’ve done thus far is magnificent—a beautiful work in progress.

“I know we’re still learning about each other,” Amara finally murmurs, “but I get the distinct feeling that you’re trying so hard to be perfect. And I get it, because I used to feel the same way—that I had to be perfect in order to prove to people that I was worthy of their time or attention or admiration. To make someone want me.”

I stay quiet as her lips twist into a wry smile, her words resonating deep within me, as much as I hate it.

“But, Stella,” she says, “none of that matters. The people who want you in their lives will take you as you are. They’ll cherish you the way you deserve. Anyone who doesn’t was never meant to be in or stay in your life.”

I blink a few times as I look back at her, clearing away the tears. “And you think Thomas wants me in his life like that?”

She snorts, breaking some of the tension. “Of course he does. The man’s obsessed with you.”

I suppose I can trust her opinion on the situation since she and Thomas are close. Then again, that only raises my suspicions about this meeting. “Did he ask you to come talk to me?”

This time, Amara throws her head back and cackles for so long that I almost start to worry. Finally, she wipes under her eyes and shoots me a girl, you’ve got to be kidding look. “If he knew I was here, he would kill me. And by kill me, I mean he’d write a very strongly worded letter and forgive me after a day, but to him, that’s aggressive.”

I wince a little because, yep, that’s exactly the man I’ve fallen for. But I don’t think I’d want him any other way.

“If he’s so obsessed with me, then why hasn’t he tried to fight me on this?” I press. “If he didn’t like me insisting we go back to following the rules—which he suggested, by the way—he could have made it known.”

Amara stares at me like I’m oblivious. “It’s because he respects you. That’s the kind of man he is. When you say no, he takes it as a final answer because he understands it’s a complete sentence. But if you give him a single reason to fight, he will.”

“And you don’t think I have?”

She considers her reply. “I think you’ve been so firm in your stance that he believes he doesn’t have a way to change your mind. That even if he told you how he felt, you wouldn’t factor it into your decision.”

My shoulders lift to my ears. “Okay, ouch . I’m not that bad.”

But…maybe I am. There’s a chance I’ve made him feel unheard and unappreciated. I mean, the rules were all my doing, after all, with little input from him. And maybe I’ve been bad at returning the moments of kindness and tenderness he’s always shown me. If you add it up, I come off as the bad guy here—all because I was trying to protect myself from more heartbreak.

Lot of good that did ya, considering how shitty you feel now!

“Never said you were,” Amara says breezily. “But you need to tell him how you feel so you can at least be on the same page.”

It only takes a few seconds of reflection for me to groan and scrub at my forehead. “You’re right.”

“Of course I am.” She lifts her chin, smiling smugly. “I’ve known him since he was an annoying little shit in short trousers. And if you’re honest with him, I can guarantee your life will get so much easier.”

I’m sure she’s right about that too. “Okay.” I exhale, steeling myself for what needs to be done. “I’ll talk to him soon.”

She arches an eyebrow suggestively. “Tonight, maybe?”

I slap her leg with the back of my hand before standing. “Don’t rush me. Besides, he’s busy with all the preseason stuff and I don’t want to distract him. I’ve got to find the right moment, make it special.” More importantly, make him feel special.

“God, you’re even more of a romantic than he is,” she groans. “You’re a match made in soppy heaven.”

Despite the dig, I smile to myself, turning away to hide it from her.

It’s time for me to follow rule number one. It’s time to stop keeping secrets.

Another week passes before my chickenshit self feels even slightly prepared to speak to Thomas.

Between my cowardice and Thomas’s suddenly hectic schedule, squeezing in an organic moment with each other has been impossible. He spends more time at McMorris HQ than he does at home, preparing for the start of the season at the end of the month. My work schedule isn’t much better either. Add in dress fittings and a thousand other wedding details that Iris springs on me, and it’s amazing I have a chance to sleep.

Tonight, though, Thomas will finally be home. And we’re going to talk.

In the kitchen, I catch myself glancing at the clock nearly every minute, willing it to move along. Dinner’s in the oven and Thomas’s favorite dessert is steaming on the stove, because yes, I was also finally brave enough to try making spotted dick. I even spent an hour in Waitrose finding all the right ingredients. Honestly, who cooks with suet and currants in this day and age?

I’m about to start on the vanilla custard when my phone buzzes in the pocket of my apron. Or really, Thomas’s apron. I know I threatened several times to toss the Union Jack–emblazoned thing in the bin, but it’s grown on me. Just like he has.

My heart skips a giddy beat at the idea that it might be him texting me. In another bold move, I messaged him this morning to say I’d be cooking tonight and that I wanted to chat over dinner if he was free. I got a reply less than thirty seconds later declaring he’d be home by eight.

It’s seven now, so maybe this is a heads-up message that he’s on his way. If it is, I appreciate the consideration so that I can time all of this perfectly. I want everything to be just right.

But when I pull my phone out, it’s not Thomas’s name that lights up my screen.

éTIENNE: Can we talk?