Like You Love Me (Honey Creek 1)

Jobe: Whatever. If you’re gonna be all fucked up over this guy, I want to meet him again.

Me: You’re way overthinking this. WAY OVERTHINKING THIS.

Jobe: Maybe you’re underthinking this. I saw how you’re smiling tonight.

Suddenly, the weight of Holden’s gaze is heavy on my face. I look up to see him watching me with a quirked brow.

“Sorry,” I say, giving my phone a final glance before shoving it into my purse. “My brother is an asshole.”

“What’s Jobe up to these days, anyway?”

“Driving me crazy.”

Holden laughs. Before he can say another word, Debbie appears at our table. She’s standing a couple of steps closer to Holden than me and wears a smug grin.

“What can I get you guys?” she asks.

“Fish dinner,” I say, giving her a pointed look. “And sweet tea with no lemon, please.”

She makes a face to let me know she read my look loud and clear.

“What about you?” she asks Holden.

“Same as Sophie.”

Debbie scribbles the orders down. “Anything else?”

“I think we’re good,” I say.

Still, Debbie lingers. She rests a hand on the edge of the table and looks at me. “I’m just going to say it: he’s a much better catch than Chad. You did good, girl.”

“Oh no,” I say, waving my hands in front of me. “It’s not like that. At all.”

“Oh. Okay.” Debbie’s voice raises a few octaves, but it’s clear she thinks I’m full of crap. Her knuckles rap against the tabletop. “I’ll be back with your drinks in a second.”

Holden watches her leave. When she’s out of earshot, he leans toward me. “So?”

“So, what?”

“So who is Chad?”

I slide back in my seat. The vinyl squeaks as I move.

“If you don’t want to tell me, that’s cool,” he teases. “I can totally find out at work tomorrow. Or I could just head over to the Lemon Aid and put out some feelers.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “The Lemon Aid is closed, smarty-pants.”

“Um, I was just in there today. They’re still in business. Good try, though.”

“I mean for the day. It closes at six.”

“It closes at six? What kind of . . . Never mind.” He shakes his head. “Back to Chad.”

I sigh. “You’re so nosy.”

“‘Nosy’ has such negative connotations.”

“I know. That’s how I meant it.”

Holden narrows his eyes playfully, making me laugh.

I search his face as I war with my emotions.

Chad is not a topic I like to talk about. It’s a subject that’s filled with a lot of frustration and grief and anger and sadness. But as I consider trying to brush the topic away, it feels like I’m being pulled back by the kindness in Holden’s eyes.

“Chad was my husband,” I say finally.

Holden bristles. His pupils go wide as he leans away from me. A softness washes over his face. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“Your condolences aren’t necessary.” I frown as I watch his reaction. “Divorce happens all the time.”

He slumps against the table. “Why didn’t you just say that?”

“I did.”

“No, you said you were married to him. I thought he was dead and was feeling really guilty for teasing you about it.”

I laugh. “He would be, but Jobe hasn’t found him yet.”

Holden relaxes against the back of his chair. There’s relief in his face, and I appreciate it.

“This Chad guy sounds like a real champ,” he says.

“I’m the moron that married him.”

I pick at the edge of the table to keep from meeting his eyes.

Chad was not my best work. Not my best choice, or the greatest guy I’ve ever dated, nor am I proud that I went through with the whole thing. But I did it and I can’t change it. I need to figure out how to accept all that.

“I’m sure you had great intentions,” Holden says.

“I did. Want to know how deep his intentions ran?” I strum my fingers against the tabletop as I look up at him. “He left me by sticking a note to the kitchen table with a dollop of strawberry jelly.”

I blow out a breath and regret word-vomiting all that. It was too deep. Too raw and real. Opening up to Holden is too easy, and I probably just ruined the mood.

He watches me for a few seconds before grinning. “He didn’t even use grape? Rude.”

I smile, relieved that he didn’t dig deeper. “Right? He didn’t even use grape on his sandwiches.”

“Big red flag right there,” he says, pointing a finger my way.

“You know, Gramma always said not to marry a man that cuts the crusts off his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

“And why is that?”

“Because that’s an indication that someone doesn’t like boundaries. Guess I should’ve listened to her. He even cut the crusts off his grilled cheese.”

He gasps, his jaw falling to the table in mock horror. “That’s serial-killer shit right there.”

“Hey, I don’t know what he’s been doing the last couple of years of his life.” I take a napkin from the dispenser. “You might be right.”