The Road to Rose Bend, Naima Simone [jenna bush book club .TXT] 📗

That seemed like even more of a betrayal.

Especially since Sydney was another man’s wife. About to be the mother of that man’s child.

“I’m not judging you, Cole,” Sydney continued, lowering her arms to her sides. He caught the slight twitch of her right hand. As if she’d been about to stretch it toward him but decided against it. “And while I might not know the details, I think I understand.”

“You do?” He arched an eyebrow, hating the caustic bite in his tone. “What do you think you understand?”

She didn’t bat an eye at his sarcasm. “I saw you over at the cemetery, Cole. And you told me yourself you were visiting your wife and son.” She glanced away, her throat working. But when she returned her gaze to him, her eyes were clear, her voice steady. “I don’t need the details. They’re yours, not mine. Especially if you’re not ready to give them to me. But all that to say, I don’t need excuses if you don’t want to stay... If you can’t stay,” she murmured.

Part of him leaped at the out she offered him like it was a rapidly unraveling lifeline. But then, a shadow flickered in her chocolate eyes. There and gone like a bend in light, but he recognized it. Was intimate with it.

Loneliness.

Sydney was lonely.

No.

Something deep inside him roared the denial. He couldn’t abide her hurting. Couldn’t abide being a perpetuator of that pain.

“I’m good, Sydney,” he said, choosing not to analyze the impulse, the urge that demanded he remain here with her. “Put me to work.” He threw a pointed glance at the step stool. “I’ll start with the cups.”

“Okay,” she finally conceded after a long moment. “Thank you.”

For the next hour, they worked in companionable silence, finishing the kitchen and moving to the living room.

Sydney had been truthful; she hadn’t brought a ton of belongings with her. The cottage had already come furnished for guests, and most of the things they unpacked were dishes, clothes, small pieces of furniture like artwork, a scratched but beautiful rocking chair, knickknacks and one of the best record collections he’d ever had the pleasure to lay eyes on.

“You’re kidding me,” he muttered under his breath, holding up a blue album cover with bright red lettering and an image of John Coltrane playing a saxophone. “You have My Favorite Things?” he asked Sydney, incredulous. Picking up the next black-and-white cover with another image of the famed jazz saxophonist, he held it up. Stared at it as if he’d never seen it before. And to be honest, he never had—in person. “And Love Supreme?” He didn’t care if envy layered his tone. “How did you come by these? Sell a kidney? Knock over a collector? What are you not telling me, Sydney Collins?”

She chuckled, pausing in the middle of adding books to the novels already occupying the tall bookshelf against the far wall of the living room.

Shaking her head, she warned, “I would tell you, but then I’d have to murder you in your sleep. No witnesses and all that.”

Plucking Giant Steps from the box, he stared at the original 1960 album and muttered, “It might be worth the risk.”

“Careful there, Cole,” she teased. “You’re sounding a little jealous.”

“More than a little,” he admitted, flipping the cover over and studying the details on the back. “I’m a lawyer, but I’m still over here mentally preparing my defense just in case I decide to perform a little B&E.”

Her laugh, full and as husky and sultry as her voice, filled the room, and he had to look up from the LP to glance at her. Delight suffused her lovely features, softening her chocolate eyes and curving her pretty mouth.

“I have to admit, I would’ve never taken you for a jazz fan.”

“Jazz enthusiast, thank you very much.” She smirked. “I think I’m a little offended. And disgustingly curious. What kind of music did you ‘take me’ to be a fan of, then?”

Yeah, he’d clumsily tripped into a minefield. A “how much do you weigh?” kind of minefield. And he had no one but himself and his big mouth to blame.

“Oh no, Coltrane Dennison. Don’t get judicious on me now. You’ve put your foot aaall the way in it. Like, I’m three-point-two seconds away from a ‘bless your heart.’ Which in Southern speak means, fuck you.” She grinned, arching a dark eyebrow high. “So you might as well ride this one out.”

He held up his hands, palms out. A snicker escaped him before he could trap it inside. “Well, hell. Don’t ‘bless your heart’ me. I just seem to remember you and Leo blasting a lot of Maroon 5, Fall Out Boy and even some One Direction back in the day. Forgive me if I assumed you still worshipped at the altar of pop.”

“One. Adam Levine is a sexy, tatted beast with the voice of an angel and the flexibility of a gymnast. Yum. Two. I still love Fall Out Boy and I deny that One Direction accusation. You have no proof, and counselor, you of all people should know any allegation without evidence means nothing. Although, I would watermelon and sugar the hell out of Harry Styles.”

Cole shuddered. “That is...disturbing.”

“Look here, Judgy McJudgerson, you don’t see me giving you side-eye over your Celine Dion obsession—”

“She’s a legend,” he interrupted.

“—so I’ll thank you to keep your opinion about my only slightly unsettling fantasies about Harry to yourself. But to satisfy your nosiness, I’ve always loved jazz. Dad owns a huge collection himself, and I used to sit in the study with him and listen to it. He would quiz me on what instrument I heard or which artist was playing.” A faint smile whispered across her lips. “It’s one of the few things we have in common. Our love of music.” Clearing her throat, she slipped the book in her hand onto the shelf and grabbed another one from a box. “But c’mon,” she said, her voice a little huskier, a little rougher. “You’re