Page 36 of Return

He and Vivian worked together, him pulling the hose from the side of the house while she turned the water on. Once the coals had been completely doused, she shut the water off and the two of them walked to their cars, parked next to each other in the driveway.

Once there, Vivian glanced toward Victor’s house, then back to him.

“Nightcap at my place?” she offered.

Dean nodded, perfectly aware that she wasn’t simply offering him a drink. “Sounds good. I’ll follow you.”

Vivian and Phil had bought a house in the same neighborhood as Victor, so it was only a five-minute drive to her place. This was his second time driving behind her, and it was starting to feel natural.

The front porch light was already on when they climbed the steps and Vivian unlocked the door. Inside, the house was quiet, and Vivian slipped her shoes off by the door. Silence settled between them, though it wasn’t a bit awkward.

Vivian walked toward him until only a foot separated them. “You want a drink?”

He shook his head. “No.”

She laughed, the sound husky and sexy as hell. “Good. Want a proper tour of my bedroom? You didn’t get to see much last time.”

They hadn’t spent more than a moment in her bedroom the last time he was here, doing nothing more than walking through to get to the master bath for their sexy shower, after sex on the couch.

“I’d like a proper tour of your bed,” he amended.

“That can be arranged.” She reached for his hand, and their fingers intertwined as she led him down the hallway.

Once there, she crossed the room, turning on the lamp on her nightstand. Dean paused in the doorway, taking in a room that felt lived in.

It wasn’t a shrine, which he had to admit had been a concern.

Whatever she’d once shared with her husband had softened around the edges over the last five years, replaced by the practical comforts of a woman making a life for herself. It felt like the bedroom of a woman who’d learned that moving forward didn’t require leaving everything behind.

A king-sized bed took up a fair amount of the space, but only one side bore the familiar imprint of regular use. Two pillows rested against the headboard, though one looked crisp and untouched, while the other was flattened. A chunky knit throw lay folded across the foot of the bed, obviously placed there more for chilly mornings than decoration.

The furniture was solid—dark maple with enough nicks and scratches to suggest it had been passed down through her family, weathered by the years. The dresser held the things she likely reached for every day: a glass plate with her earrings, a bottle of hand lotion, perfume that was half gone.

The closet door stood partially open, revealing dresses mixed with jeans, sweaters, and jackets. Whatever clothes her husband had once hung there were long gone.

Soft gray walls reflected in the amber glow of the lamp, while gauzy curtains let in a tiny bit of light from the bright moon shining outside.

Books occupied the nightstand, and a charging cable snaked toward the floor, disappearing beneath the bed. As he might have expected, the room was decorated almost entirely with photographs, frame after frame containing pictures of Pip in all different stages of her life. Quite a few included Vivian and Belle, as well.

Surprisingly, Dean only spotted one of Phil…a wedding portrait that sat on a bookshelf across the room.

Vivian must have noticed where his attention had landed.

“I used to have a ton of pictures of me and Phil in this room, but shortly after he passed…” She clasped her hands together in front of her. “I had a bad night, and I just couldn’t look at them anymore. I emptied every single frame, stashing the photographs in a box under my bed.” She pointed to the bed. “They’re still there. The frames stayed where they were, empty for nearly a year before Belle put her foot down. She said my room was fucking depressing. She wasn’t wrong. She filled all the frames with pictures of Pip. That wedding photo was the only one I couldn’t bring myself to take down.”

She glanced down at her clasped hands, her thumb and forefinger toying with the wedding ring still on her finger.

“Grief takes time,” he said, wishing he could find better words.

She looked at him, clear-eyed, no tears, as she nodded. “You’re right. It does. I know it’s a cliché. That old saying that time is the only thing that heals, but it’s true. I know I should…” She waved her left hand at him, swallowing heavily. “I should take it off.”

Dean walked over to her, taking both her hands in his. “You’ll take it off when you’re ready, Viv. And if that’s never, then it’s never.”

She stared at him for a long, quiet moment, then smiled softly. “You’re a very good man, Dean Fields.”

He scoffed. He’d been called a lot of things in his life, but good wasn’t one he’d heard often. Not that he thought he was a bad guy or an asshole or anything. Unfortunately, he’d done enough shitty things in his past that it was hard for him to accept her compliment. Especially since she’d added the word very.

This afternoon had pointed out some hard truths to him. Like the fact he never taught McKenna how to ride a bike. Or how to drive or change a tire or fish. All those dad things he should have been there for.