a moment, examining it from all sides and understanding that it was a fundamental truth, something that had come straight from his gut. Edie had always been about success first and the music second. That had never been the way he worked, however, and he’d always felt shoehorned into a role that didn’t suit. Didn’t matter how many times they’d come up with good songs—and there was nothing wrong with the band’s repertoire—Oliver had never felt a sense of ownership and connection with that music.
He strummed a few chords of his new composition, enjoying the way the sound bounced off the hard surfaces in the room. Enjoying the thought that this was his song, and he was going to let the lyrics come to him in their own time. Because he could. Because there was no one but him to please now.
It was a liberating thought. The first he’d had since finding the receipt all those months ago.
Writing music was better without Edie.
Hard on the heels of that thought came another: What else might be better without Edie?
His hands stilled on the strings. So much of his current anger and hurt stemmed from the fact that he’d convinced himself he’d been perfectly happy and content in their six-year marriage. But what if, in the same way that he’d always told himself he liked writing songs with Edie, he’d also convinced himself he was happy, too?
He stared into the abyss of the question for a full sixty seconds before standing and putting his guitar in its case. It was late and he was tired. And—possibly—he wasn’t ready to answer such a revealing question just yet.
* * *
TWO DAYS LATER, Mackenzie was standing in the dairy aisle of the local supermarket when she looked up to see Oliver enter the store. Ever since their walk she’d been alternating between attempting to come up with a bulletproof excuse to “bump” into him again and chastising herself for being so desperate. She wasn’t entirely sure which side was winning the battle, but the moment she saw Oliver she abandoned the Camembert versus Brie debate she’d been engaged in to focus on him. She watched as he grabbed a shopping basket and exchanged greetings with the woman at the checkout. He wore a red-and-black-plaid flannel shirt with old, soft-looking jeans and a pair of well-used hiking boots. A black T-shirt was visible at his neckline. He hadn’t shaved so his jaw and cheeks were bristly with the golden-chestnut whiskers that had caught her attention during their first meeting.
He looked wild and untamed and a bit dangerous, like a cowboy who had ridden into town from parts unknown. He said something to the woman at the register that made her laugh. When he moved away she followed him with her eyes, a slightly wistful expression on her face.
Mackenzie pressed her lips together. It was galling yet oddly comforting to see someone else swayed by his undeniable hotness. Really, Oliver shouldn’t be allowed out without a warning hanging around his neck. He clearly had no idea how charming he was, and now that he was single he would wreak havoc among the female population wherever he went.
He added a couple of cans of tomatoes to his basket, then glanced up and caught sight of her.
“Mackenzie.” He lifted his hand in greeting, his wide, undeniably genuine smile doing wonderful things for her feminine ego.
Stupid, starved, foolish ego.
He joined her, his easy stride eating up the distance between them. She refused to regret the fact that she was once again without lipstick, her hair covered by a black beanie that made her look even more like a twelve-year-old boy than she usually did. If twelve-year-old boys had crow’s-feet.
“Perfect timing. I was going to stop by later to ask if you wanted to come over for dinner,” he said. “I found a fishing rod in the closet so this morning Strudel and I braved the elements to see what bounty the ocean had to offer.”
“And?”
“Let’s just say it wasn’t the miracle of the loaves and fishes, but we have enough for two adults with good appetites and a couple of canoodling dogs.”
“In that case, dinner sounds great. I can bring a salad if you like.”
“Great idea. I’ll see what I can rustle up for dessert. How do you feel about chocolate mousse?”
“Covetous,” she said.
“Even if it’s store-bought?”
“Absolutely.”
Her gaze was drawn to the V-neck of his T-shirt. A scattering of golden-red hairs peeked over the top. She shifted her focus to