“I think people are wired to fix things, especially other people, and I don’t need fixing.” His charming, cavalier smile was back in place—the darker expression blown away like clouds on a windy day. “Anyway, let’s get this show on the road. I don’t want Mum and Dad arriving home early and catching us in the act.”
Cora gulped. She knew what he meant, of course, but that didn’t stop her mind sliding right into the gutter. Ignoring the insistent pulse of her blood and the little voice telling her to act on her sexual impulses, she followed Trent into the house.
The place was homey and sweet. Family photos littered the walls and surfaces, and it was all too easy to imagine the five fair-haired Walters siblings racing through the rooms as kids, laughing and teasing and being a strong, cohesive unit. They headed into Trent’s father’s office, where all the albums were stored in neat, chronological rows on a big bookshelf. Thanks to his mother’s meticulous system, it would be easy to find what they needed. They sat on the floor, legs crossed like school kids, and worked quietly.
Cora found herself distracted, but she leafed through the albums, forcing herself to concentrate and failing miserably. One night with Trent and suddenly she wanted to unravel him. To peel back the layers and figure out what made him tick. Alex had hated when she went into “investigator” mode like that, but Cora had always been curious about people. Maybe it was the stifled writer in her; she tried to satiate that need with real people instead of characters.
She flipped over another page, blinking at a photo of Trent that appeared to be from a few years ago. Five max. This was totally the wrong album. Annoyed at her mistake, she went to close the album when a picture caught her eye. Trent had his arm around a girl with blondish-brown hair and blue eyes and high cheekbones and a slightly pointed chin.
Was her brain glitching? The woman in the photo looked so much like Cora, it was like staring into the past. Even down to the little black dress and strand of pearls around her neck, which were in stark contrast to Trent’s white T-shirt and loose-fitting jeans and leather cuff on his wrist.
What the…?
“Who’s this?” She held the album up and pointed to the picture.
“I thought you were supposed to be looking at 1990,” he said, frowning.
“I picked up the wrong one.” She shook her head. “Is this…your girlfriend?”
“Was.” His tone was flatter than a pancake. “I have no idea why Mum kept that photo.”
Maybe because Trent looked blissfully happy in it—his eyes were shining and he was mid laugh, his handsome face beaming with youth and joy, and it was warmer and more delicious than freshly baked bread. The woman beside him smiled prettily, but she didn’t have the same energy about her.
But no matter how good Trent looked in that photo, Cora could only stare at the woman. The resemblance was uncanny. Eerie.
Was it possible he’d been attracted to her only because she reminded him of…?
“What’s her name?” Cora’s voice was barely a croak.
“Rochelle.”
For some reason, Cora’s throat suddenly felt tight, her stomach twisted and turned like a violent, storming sea. Had he imagined Cora was Rochelle while they were making love? Was he still in love with her and Cora merely a substitute? A way to get closure?
“No,” Trent said, though she hadn’t even asked a question. He was perceptive like that, she’d noticed, understanding what people needed and what they were thinking. “Whatever that little voice is telling you, it’s no.”
“There’s no voice,” she lied.
“Bullshit.”
Cora flipped the page and found another photo with a different angle. It was blurry, which made it even easier to see herself in Rochelle’s image. To see the similarities and add even more with her imagination.
“Cora.” His voice was rough, demanding. It shouldn’t have sent a shiver down her spine, but it did. When he said her name, it was like the world wrapped her in a fuzzy blanket. Like she was safe from the shitstorm back home. From her own insecurities.
From everything.
“She looks so much like me…or, I guess I look so much like her.” She snapped the album shut, suddenly needing distance from her discovery. For someone who’d felt second best her whole life, always shivering in her mother’s shadow, to feel like she was a carbon copy now…