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Aya
Steve stood in the kitchen wearing an apron and a frown, halfway between mother hen and drill sergeant. I tugged at the bottom of the T-shirt Nash had given me to wear. I’d put my bra back on, but hadn’t been able to handle the days-old panties. I tugged at the drawstring on the sweatpants, ensuring they remained cinched at my waist. Nash caught me and smirked.
“I made coffee,” Steve said, his gaze whisking over us. His frown deepened as he noted Nash’s bruised and swollen hand. “And I’ll get you a bandage for the hand.”
“Thank you,” Nash said.
The two of them skirted around each other—polite, but evidently unsure how to bridge the huge chasm between them.
I watched it unfold as Nash explained what I wanted for breakfast.
Steve nodded. “Good choice. That’s the kind of meal that’ll stick to your ribs.”
“Thanks,” I said. I pushed my way between them since neither seemed able to find the words they wanted. “And maybe I could make a spot of tea?”
Steve turned toward me. “Yeah. We have tea. Basically, an entire tea shop. Let me put on the kettle.”
With Steve bustling around the high-end stove, Nash relaxed. A little while later, Steve set the food in front of us on heavy, bone china plates with a turquoise swirl pattern. I touched one. They reminded me of my mother’s. I bit my lip as emotion rippled through me. I missed my mother so much. She and Nash had been close, and I knew he must miss her, too. These plates felt like an homage to her—a way to keep part of our shared past in his life.
Steve turned back to the sink now filled with suds and pans. I wanted to ask if he’d join us, but Nash looked too calm for me to ruin the moment.
Halfway through the meal, our old friend Hugh showed up, harried and disheveled.
I squealed when I saw him, diving into his open arms.
He held me, rocking back and forth. “Good to see you, girlie.”
“You, too.” I blinked back tears as I beamed up at him.
He frowned and shifted his weight from one wingtip to the other. Yes, Hugh wore wingtips and pleated-front slacks, along with a sleek tie and a smooth Brooks Brothers pinstripe dress shirt starched to perfection. His dark eyes were still as serious as I remembered, and his crazy, curly hair had been cut and combed into submission.
“I’ve felt really bad that Lindsay did that to you. I mean, I was dating her…”
“Lindsay’s behavior wasn’t your fault, Hugh,” I said, my tone gentle. I pulled away from him and returned to my seat, aware of Nash’s intense gaze. “And I didn’t bother to bring my phone with me. My father gave me a model that worked in the UK and Europe after…” I bit my lip. I hadn’t admitted my meltdown to Nash, and I wasn’t ready to discuss that now, not with all the tension in the large, bright kitchen.
“You look like a fifty-year-old hedge-fund owner,” I said instead.
Hugh grinned. “Good. That’s how I counteract Nash’s bad boy, I-don’t-give-a-shit vibe.”
“The counterpoint?” Clearly I’d missed something.
Hugh settled at the table after he snagged a big mug of coffee and a piece of chorizo from Steve.
“I’m his manager,” he said, his chest puffing with pride.
“Congratulations.” I looked between them. “I think.”
“Hey! I’m not that bad,” Nash said.
“Never said anything of the sort, Superstar.”
Steve chuckled, and Nash cracked a smile, but his eyes remained wary, fixed on my face. He knew I’d sidestepped something just now, and he didn’t like it.
“I refused to take the gig until Nash cleaned up his act,” Hugh said. “Even though I’d spent years of my life prepping for it.”
“You didn’t seem interested before,” Nash said.
“I wasn’t sure you were going to survive before,” Hugh shot back.
