Page 68 of Room for Us
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“This place is so quaint!” exclaims the supermodel invading the inn’s living room, dumping her purse on the coffee table and kicking off her high heels before falling—with freakish grace—onto the cushions with a sigh.
I don’t take it as a compliment. I’m too familiar with the tone, bright and false with a barely veiled undercurrent of distaste. Looking at the space through her eyes, I know what she sees. Vintage furniture, too many knickknacks, and old area rugs that I need to replace. Original hardwood complete with scuffs and dents from a hundred years of feet. We don’t have an onsite spa. No gourmet restaurant, shiny reception desk, or any of the amenities she’s used to.
She probably thinks of staying in Rose House as roughing it. Borderline camping. What do they call it? Oh, right—glamping. I understand her because at one point in my life, I wanted to be her.
But I don’t want to be her anymore, so she can fuck right off.
“Can I get you anything to drink? Lemonade or iced tea?”
Ethan might hate my customer service voice, but it’s the only thing keeping me from telling this woman to get her perfectly manicured feet off my coffee table.
“Iced tea would be lovely, thank you.” She stretches, catlike, and a waterfall of dark, glossy hair falls over the back of the couch.
I think longingly of scissors.
“Coming right up!”
I manage not to slam anything in the kitchen, which is a miracle. I’m kept together by thin threads of facts. He didn’t kiss her back, didn’t look happy to see her. In fact, he looked like he was choking on marbles.
But his daughter seemed perfectly comfortable around her. Which means this woman is—or recently used to be—a part of Ethan’s life. A big part, if she’d travel across the country to surprise him.
He isn’t mine.
I make it back to the living room just as Ethan appears from the opposite side, sans Daphne. He freezes, gaze bouncing between the couch and me, his panic apparent. Ignoring him, I set the iced tea down on a coaster beside Britt’s feet. Her eyes open at the sound, gaze passing me with disinterest before widening on Ethan. She leaps from the cushions, almost knocking me down as she hurries toward her target.
“Darling! I know you hate surprises, but when Janice told me about your little jaunt off the grid, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity.” She plasters herself to his front, her head tilted up coquettishly. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
I think I’m going to be sick.
I race from the room, but not before hearing him say, “Of course it’s good to see you, Britt…”
Thank God for old-fashioned craftsmanship, because thick walls steal the rest of his sentence. Safe in Aunt B’s apartment, I pace in front of the bed, trying to calm down. It doesn’t work. Surrounded by my aunt’s belongings only frays my nerves further.
When my phone vibrates in my back pocket, I answer the call without checking the caller ID, too relieved at the interruption to care.
“Hello?”
Celeste’s cheery voice greets my ears. “Hi! I was wondering if you wanted to grab coffee this afternoon?”
“Celeste, you’re a saint. A mystic. A supernatural force for good.”
She laughs. “Okay. Does that mean ‘yes’?”
“Yes, yes, yes.” I grab my purse and flee toward the back door. “How’s right now? I’m on my way out.”
Something clatters in the background. “Give me twenty minutes? Beans & Books?”
“Perfect. See you there.”
I hang up and run out the back door and around the side of the house. Once I’m in view of the front windows, I slow, aiming for a nonchalant stride that probably looks closer to power walking. The porch is empty, no sight of Ethan and Britt in the living room.
I grit my teeth against the thought of them, wrapping myself in certainty that I know Ethan. He’d never do something so fucking horrible as screwing his ex in my house. He’ll fix this. Everything will be fine.
The only problem is Britt herself—she’s a machine gun spraying bullets, tearing holes though the fabric of my certainty. On looks alone, she’s every woman I tried to mold myself into during my years with Chris. Polished and classy. Ultra-feminine. But I never quite managed to fit the mold.
As my former mother-in-law once told Chris when she thought I couldn’t hear: You can take the girl out of the stables, but you can’t take stables out of the girl.
