sheâd been the one supporting them financially. Heâd wanted to take care of her, but sheâd refused to let him help to the point of being unreasonable, in his opinion.
All because his parents had accused her of being after his money and sheâd been determined to prove them wrong, even if it had meant cutting off her nose to spite her face.
How much had the stress of carrying the financial load played into her depression?
He walked over to a shelf, picked up a photo of her parents. He wasnât sure how old the photo was, but they looked exactly the way he remembered. Then again, just because it seemed as if it had been forever since he and Emily had been married, really it hadnât been that long ago.
Five years since a judge had decreed their divorce final.
His hand shook as he set the frame back onto the shelf.
Her living room color pattern was very neutral, very pleasing to the eye. Creams, earth tones, with a few jewel-toned throw pillows tossed on the sofa. She had a few knickknacks scattered about the room, but overall it was a clutter-free look.
Without one trace of her former life.
Not that heâd expected there to be. Just that he noted there wasnât.
Then again, did his own living quarters boast anything of his life with Emily?
No. At least, they hadnât before a few weeks ago when heâd dug out a box of things heâd been unable to bring himself to throw away. Inside the box had been a photo-booth strip theyâd had taken in Atlantic City on their one and only trip there. Theyâd labeled the weekend as their honeymoon.
Heâd wanted to take her on a real honeymoon, somewhere exotic, but instead theyâd stayed in a cheap budget motel, eaten junk food, lain around on the beach, played in the water, ridden rides and had sex as if theyâd been in heat.
Not the honeymoon heâd wanted to give her or that heâd ever imagined, but he could recall few times in his life heâd been happier. When Emily had been happier.
Once upon a time, being with him had made her happy.
His stomach clenched at the memories.
Tired of being in the living room by himself, he followed his nose to where heâd find Emily. The apartment wasnât very big, so it was easy to find where she stood at a stove.
She still wore her apron, but that was where her resemblance to a fifties housewife ended.
Her hair was pulled up high on her head with a few loose tendrils that hung past her shoulders. Her makeup was subtle but perfectly accented her big green eyes, high cheekbones and pouty, all-too-kissable pale pink lips. Beneath the apron was a pair of jeans that showed off long, slender legs and a T-shirt that matched her eyes. All she needed was a television crew filming her and sheâd be a cooking show megastar.
Heâd certainly tune in week after week to see what new concoction sheâd dreamed up.
âItâs almost done,â she told him, picking up a glass of wine and dumping its contents over a dish on the stove top. âI was just finishing.â
âYou didnât have to go to any trouble. I really wouldnât have minded takeout.â
âI cooked for me, not you.â
He glanced around the small but efficient room. A vase with a few colorful flowers sat in the middle of a table. Two expensive-looking plates with ringed napkins in the center and perfectly laid out silverware to the sides sat opposite each other. Heâd have bet money she couldnât properly set a table back when theyâd been married. Had she looked up how to on the internet or was this another newly acquired skill?
âWhat are we having?â he asked, eyeing what she was doing. âLiver, broccoli, asparagus and peas?â
âYou always were a good guesser.â Her eyes twinkled with merriment.
âThatâs a lot of greens.â
âYouâre a doctor,â she reminded him with a sugary sweet fake smile. âI
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley