Every Little Piece of Me (Orchid Valley 1)

I would’ve liked to chase after her when she ran out of the bar last night, but I knew she needed space to digest the news. I resisted the urge to show up at her place and demand she talk to me, knowing it’d end badly—likely with my fist in her unsuspecting fiancé’s face. I imagined him answering the door and looking at me like all the rich pricks around here used to do. Julian, pronounced the American way, with a hard J—even his name makes him sound like some rich asshole born with a silver spoon in his mouth. As anxious as I was to talk this out, I didn’t want to see the evidence of the life she’s built with him or risk losing my shit if I had to watch him touch her.

Maybe it makes me a callous asshole, but I don’t want Julian to be part of the conversation Brin and I need to have.

I still can’t quite wrap my head around the idea that she forgot that night. It’s a gut punch, even if what she says makes sense. Xanax and alcohol don’t mix, and after about five minutes with Dr. Google, it became clear to me that she’s not the only one who loses chunks of time when she mixes the two. But why did she take Xanax in the middle of everything? Was she already engaged? Or at least in deep enough with Julian that guilt had her reaching for her prescription? Bottom line is she doesn’t remember, and I can’t do anything to get those memories back for her.

After deciding against showing up at her door, I drove around town and kept driving until after midnight. Some part of me assumed Orchid Valley would be the same as it was the day I drove away, frozen in time, but of course it’s not. The city’s grown, with new developments along the lake and up into the mountains. I drove past Brinley’s parents’ place and saw it’s been turned into a vacation spot for tourists. Downtown has grown and flourished, and the high school has at least a few new wings.

Now it’s been twelve hours since I broke the news to my wife and saw her face pale with horror, and I’m done waiting.

The Orchid is a two-story stone building right on Lake Blackledge, set against a backdrop of the southernmost part of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It’s clear from the moment I step in the front doors that Brinley runs a topnotch spa. From the soft music playing overhead to the minimalist decor to the subtle greens and blues on the walls, the space hits all the right notes for ultimate relaxation. I’m in places like this all the time, but I’m not immune, and some of my frustration melts away.

The brunette behind the counter is wearing teal scrubs and a white medical jacket. She greets me with a smile. “Good morning. How can I help you?”

I glance at her nametag and return her grin. “Hello, Wren. I’m here with Brinley’s coffee. Could you point me to her office?”

A blush creeps up her neck. “Of course. Just follow me.”

That easily, I’m in, led through a service door and to an office at the far end of the hall.

Wren pokes her head in the door. “You have a visitor.”

I hear Brinley’s confused “Who?” but I step around Wren and toward Brinley’s desk before Wren can answer.

Brinley’s eyes go wide. “Marston, what are you doing here?”

I place her coffee on her desk in front of her. “I’m bringing you coffee. A butterscotch latte.” I pull the package out from under my arm and place it on the desk beside her coffee. “And Aunt Lori’s chocolate oatmeal breakfast cookies.”

Wren twists her hands. “I’m sorry, Brinley. I thought you knew he was coming.”

I wave her off and take a seat. “Not your fault at all. I made it sound like that was the case.”

Brinley stares at the package for a long beat, then shakes her head as if she’s trying to snap herself out of a stupor. “Wren, thank you. It’s fine. Please close the door on your way out.”

“Sorry again,” Wren whispers, then the door clicks closed.

Brinley pushes the coffee and cookies to the far side of her desk and folds her arms. “You can’t just show up at my office. I’m working.”

“Would you have rather I showed up at your house last night?” I ask, and she pales. Right. I’m not the only one who thinks it would end badly if I had to see her playing house with another guy.

She grumbles something that sounds an awful lot like “pigheaded male” then leans back in her chair and stares at the ceiling. “What do you want?”

“I want to talk to my wife.”

She presses her palms against her eyes and rubs. “Please don’t use that word so loudly.” Her distress shows on every inch of her face. I almost want to promise to leave and make this all go away.