“Yeah, I heard that, too. Or something like that, anyway.”
I jerk my head up, the words penetrating my misery haze.
Creaking to my feet, I pad across the kitchen and down the short hallway to my apartment’s front door, pulling it open to reveal a drop-dead gorgeous rock star in a sky-blue tee shirt and faded black jeans that cling to his muscular legs. Zack’s wavy auburn hair is tousled and standing on end, but even rumpled and sporting at least a day’s worth of stubble, he’s take-your-breath-away handsome.
He’s going to make some woman very happy someday.
The sight of him—so lovely, with concern in his kind brown eyes—only reminds me of what I’ve lost. My own beautiful man dumped me so hard I’m still reeling from the blow twenty-six hours later.
Oh, and apparently, he hates me so much that he’s regaling the town with news of my spooge betrayal.
“He told you that I went to the sperm bank behind his back?” I rasp in a grief-weary voice.
Zack shrugs. “Not exactly.”
I squint up at him, confused. I need to stop crying. It’s affecting my ability to process information.
“I overheard him talking to someone else,” Zack says. Glancing over my shoulder, he adds, “Would it be okay if I came in? I’m pretty sure your neighbor is listening at her door. She had it cracked a second ago.”
I sniff, shrugging in the general direction of the nosy but very sweet Mrs. Simpson’s door. “I don’t care. I don’t have any pride left. I cried it all out.” I lean around Zack, adding in a louder voice, “Did you hear that, Mrs. Simpson? Fernando broke up with me, and I can’t stop crying.”
“Sorry to hear that, sweetie.” The older woman’s door opens a smidge, and her wrinkled face and dark brown eyes appear. “But he was never good enough for you anyway. You’ll find someone better, no doubt in my mind.”
My face crumples. “Thanks. But I don’t think so.”
“Sure you will,” Mrs. Simpson says, cutting a sharp look Zack’s way. “But not that one. He looks like trouble.” Her gaze shifts back to me. “You want me to call the police? Report an intruder?”
I shake my head. “No, thank you. Zack, meet Mrs. Simpson. Mrs. Simpson, meet Zack. He’s one of the good ones.”
“Hi,” Zack says, lifting a wary hand. “I’m not here to cause trouble. I promise. I just wanted to make sure Colette was all right.”
“Well, she clearly isn’t,” Mrs. Simpson huffs. “The girl might want to cry in peace, you know. Not everyone wants someone up in their business while they’re grieving a loss.”
I refrain from pointing out the irony there—Mrs. Simpson has been all up in everyone’s business for as long as anyone in town can remember. At least as far back as the early 70s when she wrote a gossip column for the local paper. “It’s fine,” I assure her. “I’m glad he’s here. He might keep me from finishing the entire jar of marshmallow fluff.”
With another suspicious glance Zack’s way, she nods. “All right. But call for help if you need it. I have my hearing aids in.” She arches a brow and points a warning finger at Zack’s chest. “Both of them. So…” She slowly closes the door, keeping Zack in her sights the entire time.
As it clicks shut, Zack laughs under his breath. “She’s a character. I’ve never been called trouble before.”
I turn back to him with a sigh, and whisper, “Don’t take it personally. She doesn’t get out much. Last time she was a regular in society, men in black jeans and motorcycle boots probably were dangerous.” I flop a hand toward my apartment’s open door. “You want to come in for a beer or something? The house is a mess, but…”
“I don’t care.” He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I like messes.”
“Then you’re going to love me right now,” I joke, gesturing toward my bed head and puffy, makeup-free face. Leading the way inside, I head down the hall to the kitchen where I slump back onto the tissue-scattered floor and grab my jar of marshmallow goo. “Beer’s in the fridge. Help yourself.” I lift the fluff in Zack’s direction. “Or you can share what’s left of this with me. Clean spoons are in the drawer by the sink.”
“No, thanks, I’m good.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he glances over his shoulder toward the living room. “Would you be more comfortable on the couch?”
I shake my head and dig for more sugar. “I don’t deserve comfort. I’m a horrible person.”
“You’re not a horrible person.”
“I am. I’m selfish and stubborn and awful.”
Zack crosses the space to squat beside me, bringing his face almost level with mine. “It’s your body and your life. If you want to have a baby, you have every right to take steps to make that happen.”