Page 33

Sam

Apparently, my ex-husband had decided that hiring a private investigator wasn’t quite stalker enough for his tastes.

The flowers arrived the morning after Tyson spotted the PI, delivered right to my doorstep because subtlety had never been Garrett’s strong suit. Red roses, of course. Two dozen of them, arranged in a crystal vase that looked expensive. The card was worse than the flowers.

“Come home. We can fix this.”

I read it three times, each word making my blood pressure spike higher. Fix this? FIX THIS?!

The roses went straight into the garbage, vase and all. The card I kept, because my lawyer had started a file labeled “Evidence of Harassment” and this definitely qualified.

My phone had become a landmine of unknown numbers. Charlotte area codes, random cell numbers, even a few from DC where Garrett occasionally had business. I didn’t answer any of them. Didn’t listen to the voicemails. Didn’t read the texts from numbers I didn’t recognize. My block list was getting longer than my contacts list.

“He’s escalating,” my lawyer said when I called her about the flowers. Rachel Ashworth didn’t mince words, which was what had convinced me to hire her. “His team is filing motion after motion. Requesting mediation. Demanding counseling. They’re throwing everything at the wall to delay the proceedings.”

“Why?” I paced my empty living room, grateful my furniture was finally arriving tomorrow. “He was literally inside my sister when I found them. What’s left to mediate?”

“According to his attorney, Garrett believes that if he drags this out long enough, you’ll - and I quote - ‘calm down and see reason.’“

I barked out a laugh that had nothing to do with humor. “Calm down? I almost lit his car on fire.”

“Allegedly.”

“Right. Allegedly.” I appreciated that Rachel never asked if I’d actually been about to do it. Good lawyers knew when not to know things. “What do we do?”

“We document everything. Every call, every flower delivery, every attempt at contact. Tennessee has excellent stalking laws, and crossing state lines to harass you makes it federal.”

The word ‘stalking’ sat cold in my stomach. Garrett had never been violent. Manipulative, sure. Controlling, definitely. But he’d never hurt me physically.

Then again, I’d never humiliated him in front of Charlotte’s entire social elite before.

Damn.

***

Two days after the PI incident, paranoia had become my new roommate. I checked windows before leaving the house. Scanned the street for unfamiliar cars. Jumped at every unexpected sound. It was exhausting, being this vigilant. Part of me wondered if that was his goal, wear me down until I cracked and came crawling back.

He could wait until hell froze over.

I’d made it exactly three steps out my front door, heading to my car for the wallet I’d forgotten yesterday, when a cheerful voice nearly sent me into cardiac arrest.

“You must be Sam!”

A woman stood in Tyson’s driveway, and my first thought was that the universe had to be playing some cosmic joke. She was gorgeous in that effortless way some women managed, late fifties, black hair with natural silver streaks, wearing jeans and a sweater that somehow looked both casual and expensive. Her smile was warm enough to thaw glaciers.

“I’m Delia Calloway,” she said, crossing the yard with a covered dish in one hand and what looked suspiciously like a planner in the other. “Tyson’s mother. I’ve heard so much about you from Noa.”

Oh god. His mother. Of course his mother was gorgeous. Of course she showed up when I looked like I’d been living in the streets. It kind of felt like it, though.

“All good things, I hope,” I managed, trying to smooth down my hair without looking like I was smoothing down my hair.

“Oh honey, according to my granddaughter, you’re practically Wonder Woman.” Delia’s laugh was rich and genuine. “She told me you bought the cottage next door and that you’re very pretty and don’t have a husband. Kids have such interesting priorities.”

My face burned. “She’s very… thorough.”

“She gets that from me. Speaking of which, I brought you a casserole because nobody should have to cook while dealing with this place, and I wanted to meet the woman who has my son twisted in knots.”

What? I had his gorgeous son how? She must be joking. “I don’t…”