Page 19 of Tragic (Lark Cove 3)

For too many years I’d protected his ego, stroked it even. This would have been the point in previous conversations where I’d spend ten minutes complimenting his style. But we weren’t married anymore, and his ego was no longer my problem.

So I let him huff as I pressed the phone between my ear and shoulder. With it wedged tight, I stripped off my towel and slipped on some clean panties.

“Warmer,” he repeated, his tone full of disdain.

“Yes, warmer.”

Adam’s mother was a well-known architect in New York. She’d become quite famous over the years, designing expensive homes and penthouses for the city’s social climbers. And she’d imprinted her style on Adam from an early age.

He probably took my critique as a snub to his mother.

But since she’d all but disowned me during the divorce, after years of telling me I was the daughter she’d never had, I didn’t care if I offended either of them.

“I want a house that’s cozy,” I told him as I hiked up some leggings. “One where you can tell that people actually live there. I might even get some magnets for the refrigerator. I don’t know, I, uh . . .” I needed both hands to get my breasts covered. “Hold on a second.”

I didn’t miss his huff before I tossed the phone on my bed and stuffed myself into a sports bra. My breasts had developed early and hadn’t stopped growing until my junior year in high school. I was a solid double D, too big to avoid underwire most days, but I’d found a few high-end sports bras that gave the girls a good lift and had a cool crisscross pattern on the back.

I wasn’t going to be a women’s fitness model any day, but my curvy hips and great bust looked pretty damn good in spandex.

After tugging on a slouchy green tank, I went back to the phone. “Okay, I’m back.” And I was done with this conversation. “Was there something else you needed?”

“No. I just wanted to

talk. I’m sorry about the furniture. I didn’t realize you were so unhappy with the style we’d picked for our home. If I’d known, we could have done something different.”

Damn him. He’d annoyed me with his attitude, so much that I’d been ready to hang up. But then he said things like that and in rushed the guilt.

It was no secret he hadn’t wanted our divorce. He’d wanted to stay together to work on our marriage. I’d called a lawyer.

“Adam—”

“Are you okay? Everything good?”

I nodded, hating the heartbreak that laced his voice. I hated knowing I was the reason he was lonely right now.

“Piper?”

“Yes.” I cleared the lump from my throat. “Yes, I’m good.”

“I wish you were still here. I was craving a hot dog for dinner, but I can’t go to Gray’s Papaya without you.”

That restaurant had been our spot in college. Any time one of us had an important exam, we’d go there afterward to celebrate. Except as soon as Adam had turned twenty-five, he’d deemed hot dogs contraband. Our home hadn’t just been devoid of color but junk food too. I’d brought home a bag of Cheetos once and he’d acted like I’d brought in the bubonic plague.

“You don’t eat hot dogs anymore, remember?”

He chuckled. “I would have been willing to break a rule.”

My eyes closed and I sank down to the edge of the bed. “Did you get the key?”

“I did. Though you could have given it to me directly.”

“I forgot.”

We both knew I was lying because I never forgot anything.

I’d brought the key to our home, the one where Adam still lived, with me to Montana. I don’t know why I hadn’t just left it with the doorman. Or why I hadn’t set it on the counter when I’d moved out. But I’d taken it with me during both moves, keeping it on the same keychain it had been on since we’d bought the place.

The day I’d closed on my home in Lark Cove, I’d mailed the key to New York.