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Chapter Two

THREE YEARS LATER

With a grocery bag in one hand, I insert the key into the lock with my other and open the door to our home: 236 East 72 nd Street—a four-bedroom, four-bath, three thousand square foot brownstone that Oliver and I picked out together.

I moved to New York City six months after what happened back in Rockstead when Reynolds, Burns & Nelson offered me a job as an attorney for their property law division. I had no choice but to leave the charming town of Rockstead for apparent reasons. It was hard enough being there without my husband and the horrific memories of that night, but I had become the talk of the town and was labeled as that poor widow . I saw the way the people of the town looked at me: the whispers, the pity. I couldn’t stand it anymore. At that point, the police hadn’t found my husband’s killer, and Lucas Strange informed me that they probably never would. Cindy said I was suffocating and needed to make a fresh start. She was the one who found the ad for the job at Reynolds, Burns & Nelson on Indeed and sent me the link .

I set the brown paper bag on the kitchen island. I loved my kitchen—an incredible chef’s kitchen with a wall of windows, ample white cabinets, top-of-the-line appliances, Caesarstone countertops in a Carbo Brushed color, a built-in banquet, and a breakfast bar (the island) with two bar stools.

I hear the front door open, and my nose immediately picks up his scent. Armani cologne fills the air, a mix of earthy musk and citrus—two scents that are nothing short of alluring and powerful.

“There’s my beautiful wife.” A smile graces his face as he strolls into the kitchen. “Did you just get home?” He leans in and kisses my lips.

“I did. On my way home, I had to stop at the store to pick up some things, and there was a line.”

“I’m going to head upstairs, change out of this suit, and go into my office to do some work. When will dinner be ready?” he asks.

“In about an hour.” I smile.

I watch as my husband winks at me and leaves the kitchen.

After Brian died, I never thought I would find someone as perfect as him. A year after his death, I dipped my toe into the dating pond after a colleague of mine, Samantha, pressured me into joining a dating app—something I had never done before. She assured me it was safe as long as I followed the rules.

Always meet publicly.

Always tell a friend where you’re going and with whom.

Know what you want.

Ask questions.

Follow your gut. If your gut tells you to run, fake a phone call and get out.

And that’s precisely what I did. If my gut wasn’t feeling it, I would excuse myself to the bathroom, text her to call me in five minutes, and head back to the table. I only went on a date four times after that first year. Every man I thought was nice, my gut was telling me something else. I finally realized I wasn’t ready to date and deleted the app.

“How are you ever going to meet a man?” Samantha asks.

“Maybe the old-fashioned way?” My brow arches.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody meets the old-fashioned way anymore, Kat.”

Maybe she had a point, but I knew I wasn’t ready. When I was, the perfect man would come along—and he did—the old-fashioned way.

“It smells wonderful in here,” Oliver strides into the kitchen and grabs a bottle of wine from the rack.

He has never once complained about my cooking in our two years of marriage. But to be fair, there was nothing to complain about. I learned from my mom. She was the best cook I ever knew and shared her secrets and tips with me.

I reach into the cabinet and grab two white plates with gold trim. On each plate, I carefully place four perfectly seared scallops drizzled with lemon caper sauce, surrounded by steamed broccoli florets and a perfectly baked potato with two pats of butter and a dollop of sour cream.

“Dinner looks delicious, darling.” Oliver pours two glasses of red wine .

I carefully carry the plates to the dining table and set them down. We settled into our usual spots, ready to enjoy our dinner together.

“You know this is my favorite dish of yours.” He smiles, placing the linen napkin on his lap.

“I know.” I smile. “Consider it an early anniversary gift.”

“I can’t believe we’ll be married two years tomorrow. Where on earth has the time gone?” He shoves a scallop in his mouth and savors the taste. “I made a reservation for us at Daniel at six o’clock, and then we’ll head to Chelsea and visit the art gallery.”

“Sounds like fun. I can hardly wait.” I smile. “I told my boss I must leave the firm no later than four-thirty. That’ll give me enough time to come home and change.”

I’m bathing in our luxurious double bathtub with massage and ambient lighting. You’re probably wondering how a bathtub can massage you. A waterfall on each side of the tub jets out and massages the body. It really sealed the deal for me when we looked at the house. Oliver could have cared less until he bathed in it for the first time after we moved in. Sometimes, if he has a hard day at the office, he comes home, kisses me hello, tells me he had a hard day, and flies up the stairs to bathe before dinner.

I sit in the tub and count my blessings. After what happened back in Rockstead, I never would have believed this would be my life now—married to a handsome financial analyst, working at a prestigious law firm, and living in a five-million- dollar brownstone.

The bathroom door opens, and Oliver walks in, a handsome smile gracing his lips and a bottle of wine and glasses in his hands.

“Care for some company?” He holds up the wine bottle.

“I’d love some.” I smile.