“How did you break it?” Darcy asked, laughing. It was the first time he’d ever spoken in depth about his life. She wanted to ask him so much—his grandmother? She wanted to hear all about her. And Sherlock Holmes? Darcy adored those books.
“I kicked a rock.” Nash shook his head at the memory. “It was on the beach, I thought it was just lying there, didn’t see that it was like an iceberg, most of it down beneath the sand—”
A car pulled into the drive on the other side of the hedge. Doors slammed. Voices were carried by the breeze over the hedge to Darcy’s she-was-ashamed-to-admit-it straining ears.
“I get the first shower.” The teenage girl. Willow.
“I’ll start the coals on the grill.” Boyz. “I’ll rinse off in the outdoor shower and have a proper scrub down later.”
“Willow, there are two bathrooms, you know.” The mother.
“Yeah, but the water pressure changes and I can’t get enough hot water if someone else uses the other shower.” Willow.
“All right, go ahead. Honey, I’m going to pour myself a drink. Would you like one?” The mother. The wife. Autumn.
“A gin and tonic with lots of ice would hit the spot.” Boyz.
“Darcy? Earth to Darcy.”
She forced her attention to her own backyard. Nash was frowning.
“Sorry, Nash. Sorry.” Her whole ridiculous little plan was backfiring. Boyz had no idea that his ex-wife was so near, talking with her lover. Instead, Darcy couldn’t even concentrate on what Nash was saying because she couldn’t stop eavesdropping on Boyz! She put her hand to her forehead. “I think I’m getting a headache. Too much going on.”
“Should I go home and let you lie down?” Nash asked gently.
“No, no, I want to hear about you and Sherlock Holmes and the rock.”
“Sherlock Holmes and the Rock,” Nash intoned in a radio announcer’s voice.
“Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Broken Big Toe,” Darcy shot back, proving she’d listened to at least some of what he’d said. “Why do people enjoy mysteries so much, Nash? The littlest children don’t understand mysteries, but around seven or eight years old they can’t get enough.”
“For me, it never stopped.” Nash held out his hands. “I’m a hopeless mystery addict. Especially in the summer, when I’m too beat to read anything intellectual.”
“I’m that way, too!” Darcy exclaimed.
“Here’s your drink, darling. When do you think the coals will be ready?”
“Thanks. Let’s give them thirty minutes.”
“It will take Willow that long to shower.” Laughter.
They sounded so happy together. So complete. How had it happened that Darcy had been captivated by Boyz, and he by her, and they had married, and then everything absolutely went to shit? They had married too soon—she knew that was why, she’d thought about it endlessly, talked to friends, talked to a counselor—and she had gotten over it, she was over it, but what in the world did it mean that Fate had set him down right there, on the other side of the hedge of her own backyard?
Fate probably had nothing to do with it. It was only a mistake—people made mistakes all the time— but still, how could she trust her own instincts? Was she going to end up like her mother, going from man to man, genuinely infatuated at first, then losing that rush and needing another, like some kind of drug addict? Was that sort of thing genetic? But, no, she wasn’t like that, she hadn’t gone from man to man; after Boyz she had retreated into herself; it had been three years since Boyz left her for another woman, and she hadn’t even kissed another man for the first two years. Finally, she’d slept with Nick Diaz. It was a cold winter, her friends urged her to just do it, and Nick was a really good guy. It had been very pleasant, too, going to bed with Nick, but they both knew it wasn’t the beginning of a serious relationship. They never hooked up again, although when they saw each other at parties they were both friendly. After Nick, Darcy had a self-imposed drought before meeting Nash this spring….
“Okay, so I’m going home.” Nash stood up, yanking her back to the present.
How long had she been caught up in the chaos of her thoughts? Long enough to cause Nash to leave. “I’m so sorry, Nash, I’m not usually so hopeless, at least I hope I’m not—”
“Don’t worry about it.” Leaning over, he kissed her forehead.
She inhaled the good strong scent of Nash, soapy and sweaty and masculine and she wanted to take him by the hand and lead him up to her bedroom. Instead, she trailed behind him as he went under the arbor and around the side of the house to his truck. She didn’t want him to leave, but she couldn’t promise herself her mind wouldn’t wander.