His gaze was tender and understanding, and she saw her own pain reflected in his eyes as he stepped toward her and slowly took her hand. His skin was warm, smooth, and achingly familiar.
“Kyle,” she whispered, but he looked at her, lacing his fingers through hers, saying nothing, because really, there was nothing to say. They’d said everything. They understood. They didn’t only share a history. They’d shared a loss, too.
He leaned down and kissed her, just like he had a thousand times before, and this time it was no different. It was one effortless, lingering, soft kiss. She’d taken so many of them for granted, assumed that there would always be another. Until there wasn’t. One day, without maybe even realizing it, they’d had their very last kiss.
Until tonight.
She backed away slowly, biting down on her lip, wanting to savor the sensation as much as she knew she should try to forget it. Because oh, she had tried so hard to forget him, these moments. These feelings.
And maybe that was exactly what she should do. Go back to New York. Forget this night ever happened.
And somehow, find a way to forget Kyle again too.
14
Brooke woke Sunday morning to the sound of the birds chirping on the tree outside her open window. Despite the restless sleep she’d had, she couldn’t help but smile. Back in New York, she would have woken to the honking horns of frustrated cab drivers and the wail of sirens. She’d forgotten about the simple pleasures of nature that her hometown offered. She’d forgotten about a lot of things.
Or tried to forget, at least.
She lay in bed for a while as the sunlight filled her room, knowing that she most definitely needed curtains and soon, but not today. No, today she had too much on her mind—all the work she planned to do in her shop to prepare for tomorrow, and of course…
She closed her eyes and replayed the kiss, feeling her heart race as she relived the memory. It had happened, and she wasn’t so sure that she regretted it. And that was…confusing.
Eventually, because she was going to drive herself crazy thinking about last night any longer, she pushed back the duvet and showered and dressed for the day. A little fresh air would do her some good, but instead of walking, she decided to try her old bicycle, for old times’ sake. She laughed as she climbed on and began a shaky push down the road, thankful that traffic was light. How long had it been since she’d felt the wind in her face, the rush of gaining speed when she hit a small decline?
She took the path by the lakefront, enjoying the view, and making a promise to herself to get out to Evening Island soon, in time to see the lilacs bloom.
She didn’t make the conscious decision to pedal north and turn onto the gravel road where she’d once lived. The pull of curiosity was nearly as steep as her reservation, but it won out, and before she could change her mind, she’d turned onto the tree-lined street that had drawn her in at first sight, with its small homes tucked behind large oaks and maples.
And there, where the road ended, was her house. Or rather, Kyle’s house.
It was smaller than she’d remembered but neat and tidy with fresh white paint and a dark blue door. She slowed her pace, slanting a glance as she went past, planning to just turn around, and darn it if a squirrel didn’t choose that moment to dash out into the road, startling her and making her jerk her handlebars. Her front tire caught a large rock, forcing the bike to an abrupt stop. Only quick thinking prevented her from toppling to the side, but the brush with the grass twisted her ankle, causing her to yelp in pain.
The front door of the house swung open, and there was Kyle, taking in the scene as he sipped from a mug of coffee.
He looked surprised to see her, but not displeased, and all at once, Brooke knew that this was a bad idea. Something had shifted between them, and it had been so much easier when their relationship was defined, even if it was still murky in the legal sense.
Brooke tried to put some weight on her ankle and winced in pain. There would be no pedaling back to town at this rate, much less walking the bike. Against her better judgment, she said, “Do you have an ice pack?”
“Come on in,” he said with a little grin. “It’s still your house.”
She wasn’t so sure about that, and she certainly didn’t think of it that way, either. She’d left this house within two months of married life, making a home of her shabby city apartment instead, but as she reluctantly toed the kickstand on her bike and began a slow walk to the front porch, she felt as if no time had passed at all since she’d lived here.
She could still remember the day they’d found it, just a few short months before their wedding. It had come on the market as a rental, which seemed like the perfect solution for their long-term plans. Sure, it had needed work, which was why it wasn’t attracting tourists and was well within their price range, but the owner said they could do with it as they pleased, and besides, it was only supposed to be temporary.
But even though it was short-lived, it was special. A little piece of the world that was theirs and theirs alone. The first kitchen she’d cooked in, the first dining room where they’d shared meals, as proper adults at their own table—a concept that felt so strange and exciting at the time.
Still, it wasn’t her home
