But it did. And every time I thought those things, my level of missing him went up a notch.
Sia was happy with Jake, and I was thankful. That kept her distracted enough not to worry too much about me or even focus on me when we got together for lunch or drinks a few times each week.
Cole seemed to sense that I hadn’t been entirely kidding with that text, and his messages grew more serious after that: Never. I want to come back as soon as I can. Business is getting in the way. The rest of his texts were similar. He really did seem to want to know how I was, if I slept okay at night. He texted once, Dorian said you were walking the track late last night. You okay?
He’d been asking about me. A warmth spread through me, tingling all the way to my toes. I immediately wanted to shake that off and roll my eyes, but I couldn’t. Instead, I thumbed back, My bed seems empty now. Your fault.
A few more days. I’ll make it up to you. ;)
The few days turned into two more weeks.
The texts grew random and slowed. It was what it was. The detox was in full effect. After no communication in the fifth week he’d been gone, it was time I dealt with some of my feelings. I wasn’t going to date anyone else. I wasn’t even going to date Cole, but I wasn’t going to wait for his texts anymore.
I went to see my realtor one day. We were in her office, and I wasn’t thinking about Cole. Nope.
“Addison.”
I’d been thinking about Cole. Cursing myself, I turned back to Heather’s voice.
She hadn’t come alone into the conference room. Three men followed her.
I stood and managed a half-smile. “Hello.”
The first man looked me over, a smile plastered on his tanned and weathered face. His hair was dark, unnaturally dark. He looked to be in his later fifties, and he was tall, probably close to six feet. A gut stuck out beneath his suit jacket. The other two, both scowling, walked in behind him. They ignored my outstretched hand and claimed their seats, leaving the seat across from me open. They placed their briefcases on the table.
“Ms. Sailer.” The first one finally shook my hand, giving it a firm pump. “I’m Alfred Mahler. I’m from Mahler and Associates. I’m representing your in-laws, Mr. and Mrs. Sailer. It’s a pleasure to have met you.” He glanced around the room. “Heather, I thought Ms. Sailer would have legal representation with her?”
Heather was a petite woman, but she’d been a force when she sold the house to Liam and me. She took the seat at the head of the table. “We weren’t aware that lawyers were going to be needed.” She adopted the same scowl as the other two. “You said Carol and Hank wanted this meeting.”
“Yes.” His smile was still there, but his eyes were dismissive. “They wanted this meeting, and we are representing them.”
“I don’t understand why we’re here. You were vague on the phone.” Heather folded her hands together, resting on the table. “What is it that you’re here to say?”
Mr. Alfred Mahler didn’t answer, not right away. He took his time before signaling his colleagues. The farthest one unclipped his briefcase and pulled out some papers. He handed them to the second lawyer, who handed them to Mr. Alfred Mahler. But no, that wasn’t right. Mr. Mahler cleared his throat and tapped the table. The papers were placed there and then slid over until they were right in front of him.
I glanced away to roll my eyes.
Heather said under her breath, “This is ridiculous.”
“What was that?” Mahler asked.
“Nothing.” Her voice grew clearer. “I’m assuming these papers are for Addison?”
“Yes.” He leaned forward, his finger still resting on the papers. “They’re for Ms. Sailer.”
Heather looked at me. “Do you mind?” She indicated the papers.
I shrugged.
She pulled them out from under the lawyer’s finger and began reading. The more she read, the deeper her frown became. By the third page, I was worried.
She looked over.
“What is it?”
“They’re suing you for the house.” She regarded him, her neck already red and the color spreading to her face. “You have no basis. She was his wife.”
“What?” I…what?!
“Yes, we assumed you would say that, but her name’s not on the title, and my clients feel their money was used to purchase the house.” Mr. Mahler stood up. The other two scrambled to stand with him. “This meeting was more a formality. We wanted to make sure you were served these papers, and next time we meet, bring legal representation.” He turned toward the door. They walked out, one after another.
“Why do I have the urge to throw an eraser at him?” I asked, glowering at Mahler’s retreating form.