Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk 3)

Michael rubbed a hand over his face, remembering their argument in their hotel room in Hartwell after he’d told her who Dahlia had been to him.

“All this time, Mike? All this time and I thought it was your preoccupation with your job. I hated your job. I blamed everything about it on why things between us weren’t right. But it wasn’t the long hours or that look you’d get on your face that told me you’d just seen something awful again, or that we couldn’t afford a bigger place on your salary. All of that was shit.

“I don’t care about any of that. I didn’t know what was keeping you from me. Now I do. It was her. I know it was her … because you have never looked at me the way you looked at her. You have never sounded talking about me, not even at our wedding, the way you sound when you say her name.”

Would Dahlia keep ruining things for him, then?

Would she haunt him for the rest of his fuckin’ life, making it hard for him to connect with someone else?

Because that’s what had happened, right?

He’d kept Kiersten at arm’s length so she couldn’t pull “a Dahlia” on him.

Sighing, he got out of his car, locked it up, and made his way into the building. Unlocking the door to his apartment, Michael stepped inside the airy space and tried not to process the emptiness. He hadn’t done much to make it a home. There was a couch, armchair, table with a lamp, and a TV in the living room. A table and chairs in the kitchen. A bed and bedside tables in the bedroom. It had a built-in closet, so he didn’t need anything else in there.

Their Everett house was filled with all the feminine things that seemed like nonsense to Michael. Now he realized Kiersten had made that place their home. She was right.

He slumped on his bed.

He’d checked out on her.

And she wasn’t even trying to make their divorce hard to get her revenge, even though he deserved it.

He’d fucked over a good woman, the way Dahlia had fucked over him.

Lying back on the bed, Michael groaned, hating the way her face invaded his mind. It was eleven years since they’d met. Eleven years.

Still feeling like this … well, that shit wasn’t right.

Jesus, his friend had told him he was dating his ex-wife, and still his thoughts went to Dahlia. It was her who caused this pain in his chest, like someone digging a small knife right above his heart and twisting it. He wished he had someone, anyone, even the redhead from the office who would normally be off limits, to fuck. To fuck until he’d stop thinking about her. Not Kiersten.

Apparently never Kiersten.

Always her.

“Why’d it have to be her?” he murmured into the room. “Go haunt someone else.”

The next morning Dad made me a champion’s breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and bacon, covered with a generous dollop of maple syrup. I couldn’t finish it.

“You can eat more than that,” he protested.

“Dad, I don’t eat like this anymore. I don’t know if you know this about women, but when we hit thirty, our metabolism decides ‘fuck it,’ puts its feet up, and decides it’s done a lifetime duty in twenty-nine years.”

He chuckled. “Who cares? Men like curves.”

I rolled my eyes. “I don’t care what men like, Dad. I care what I like.”

Dad winked at me. “Good girl.”

Shaking my head with a smile, I pushed my plate away. Then I snuck what had been on my mind since I’d woken up into the conversation. Okay, I didn’t sneak it in. I threw it in like a wrecking ball. “So, how do you feel about this separation, Dad?”

His fork froze halfway to his mouth, and he cut me a dirty look.

I smiled sheepishly. “I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be.” His voice had gone all gruff in that way it did when he didn’t want to talk about something.

“Dad?”