Page 30 of A Simple Reminder
Wait. Something is up.How does he know hers?
Confusion settles in, tightening my chest as I glance between them. There’s something here I’m not picking up on, something unspoken that doesn’t sit right. I’m not jealous—why would I be?—but there’s an itch of irritation just under my skin.
“Oh, you two know each other,” I say, aiming for casual, but it comes out flat. My gaze shifts to Sophie, her reaction not helping to ease the tension crawling up my spine.What is going on here?I’m not sure I like it.
I clear my throat, forcing my attention back to Jared. “Well, that makes things easier, I guess. Sophie, meet our new interior designer,” I say, the words clipped. Then, with a small, pointed smile, I add, “You’ll be working together on this project.”
FOURTEEN
SOPHIE
Well, that makes things easier, I guess. Sophie, meet our new interior designer. You’ll be working together on this project.The words from earlier echo in my mind, each syllable a prickling reminder of that man’s audacity. Why hire a new interior designer when I’m already handling the job? Is Liam not happy with my ideas? If that’s the case, why has he been so agreeable about everything?
The thought of working with Jared again is almost unbearable. What started as a brief fling turned into a shallow on-and-off “relationship” that dragged on for nearly three years before finally ending it. We were comfortable with each other, sure—he was nice enough and took care of certain needs—but it never blossomed into love on either side. Our longest stretch together was about eight months, and it ended when he stole a project that was originally mine—a project that could’ve launched my career and put me on the map.
I’m determined not to let that history repeat itself. How is it that my luck is so bad that I now have to work with not just one buttwoexes?
After the introductions, I excused myself, telling Liam I had a meeting with an artist I was considering for a commission. I didn’t. I ran—again—and took a cab home. The reality of the situation gnaws at me, relentless and mocking, as if the universe has decided to make me the punchline of some cruel joke. How much more of this can I take before I lose it and accidentally stab someone?
“Okay, honey, you don’t have to kill the apples,” Adeline says, placing a calming hand on my forearm to stop my frenzied chopping.
I glance down at the apples, now thoroughly smashed under the force of my frustration. What a mess. I’m making apple pie for tonight—Liam’s favorite. But now that I think of it, maybe I should add some extra salt. It seems fittingly ironic—a little extra salt to match my attitude that will be joining us for dinner.
Adeline steps in, gently prying the salt shaker from my grip. “I know the situation sucks, but how would Liam know about your past with Jared?” she says, her voice soft but firm.
He wouldn’t, but that's neither here nor there. That’s not what hurts. It’s the fact that he hired another designer. The sting isn’t just in the personal history but in the implication that my work might not be enough. Seeing someone else in this role feels like a gut punch, reminding me that despite everything I’ve done, there’s still doubt. I’ll never be enough on my own.
Adeline must notice the turmoil on my face because her eyes soften, and her posture shifts, more relaxed now. “I can see the gears turning in your head,” she says, slipping her hand into mine. “You’re amazing, Sophie. They choseyou. You’re the first choice—the head designer. Jared was probably only hired as support.You’rehis boss.” Her voice tightens slightly as she adds, “I don’t like that Liam hired him behind your back, but maybe having him here will take some of the pressure off you.”
“I like pressure,” I respond, like an idiot.
“I’ll speak with Liam if you want. He owes you an apology.”
“No,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “Don’t say anything.” I take a deep breath, forcing myself to regain composure. “I’ll handle it.”
The doorbell rings, startling me out of my thoughts. I glance at the clock—he’s as punctual as ever. “I’ll get it,” I say, forcing my voice to sound steadier than I feel. My steps are brisk as I head to the door, my mind tangled in a mess of frustration and hurt, bracing myself to confront him.
But when I open the door, my breath catches in my throat. It feels as if someone has punched me in the stomach, leaving me temporarily breathless.
Liam stands there, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, holding a bottle of red wine in one hand and a delicate pot of forget-me-nots in the other.
“Two Queens,”I say, placing a pair of twos face down on the card stack. My voice is steady for now, but my poker face is on the brink of cracking if someone so much as breathes wrong.
After Adeline’s delicious lasagna and my apple pie–unsalted and tasty if I say so myself–we started playing cards. This week’s game isBullshit. One of my favorites. It’s a simple game, but it demands strategy and a solid poker face—or, in this case, a bullshit face, whichever you prefer.
So far, we’ve played three rounds, with Liam winning two and Adeline taking one. His wins don’t sit well with me–not just because I haven’t won yet, but because it feels like he’s cheating. So, I insisted on another round, determined to reclaim some control.
I thought I’d feel calm, collected. But the moment Liam showed up with forget-me-nots, something in me cracked open. I glance over at the kitchen island, where the delicate pot sits like an accusation. My hand drifts instinctively to the spot behind my ear, where my flower tattoo is hidden beneath layers of carefully styled hair.
Why would he do that? After everything—why forget-me-nots? Is he trying to send a message? Is this some kind of secret code meant only for me?
Heat rises to my cheeks as I think it over. No, let’s be realistic. Liam is a man, and men often don’t read the subtleties of emotions as well as they should. He knows I love this flower, so he probably bought them to smooth things out. It’s his way of acknowledging that he’s in the wrong, but it only makes me angrier instead of easing the tension. The gesture feels like a shallow attempt at appeasement, a way to patch things up without addressing the real issue. The thought of Liam’s easy smile as he handed me the pot of flowers and his nonchalant attitude makes my frustration bubble up again.
“Bullshit,” Liam calls, his eyes burning into mine. His gaze is intense, but I force myself to meet it with a defiant stare, refusing to back down.
I shrug nonchalantly. “Are you sticking to bullshit, or are you going to take it back?”
The game feels like a twisted reflection of the current situation I’m in. Liam is completely bullshitting me.
