Stand-In Saturday (Love For Days #2) - Kirsty Moseley Page 0,5

see if things could be worked out? Huh?” She pouts at me.

Because he’s a cheating scumbag. I suck on my teeth, so I don’t say that out loud.

Things are … difficult. Lucas’s dad and my dad are business partners, and also, they’re best friends. Lucas and I pretty much grew up together; it was probably a given we’d get together at some point. Our parents eagerly pushed for it. My mother has always adored him. Lucas is even vice president of sales at my father’s company. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t heap a pile of crap on them and drop the bomb that Lucas, my loving fiancé, had cheated on me. This is our problem, not theirs. So, instead, we’ve told everyone it was an amicable split. Therefore, much to my chagrin, our parents still advocate for us to get back together at every given opportunity.

“Mamma, stop pushing. It’s not going to happen. We’re over.” He’s moved on. I shrug and raise my eyebrows.

She lets out a huge sigh, brushing her long, glossy brown locks away from her face. “I know what you always say. But a mother can have a little hope.” She smiles weakly before turning back to glance down at the boxes. “Tomas, where is the food package? Did you leave it in the car? Don’t just stand there. Go get it! Oh mio Dio.”

My mother is the only one who could get away with ordering Tomas Gordio around like that. He’s an important man, known for having a sharp tongue and an even sharper eye for business, but he adores her too much to argue with her. Growing up, I always hoped I would find someone who loved me as much as my father loved my mother.

I grin, my ears perking up at the mention of food. My mother, being a traditional Italian woman, loves to cook. Her food packages are legendary, and it means Aubrey and I likely won’t have to make dinners for a couple of weeks. My mouth waters at the thought.

My best friend wanders into the hall. “Did someone say food?” She grins at my mother before pulling her into an affectionate hug. “Hi, Stella.”

As my dad makes his way back downstairs and Aubrey drags my mother into the living room, I look back at the boxes and frown. These are remnants of the past, a leftover casualty of my broken-down relationship. My ex-fiancé texted me last week and told me he was boxing up the things I’d left behind at our apartment. He was having a clear-out, apparently. Likely so he could move his new plaything into my home to enjoy my beautifully decorated apartment and newly fitted kitchen.

There’s an envelope stuck on the top box, so I bend and tear it off, my heart clenching at the familiar, messy scrawl. Inside is a note.

Lucie, if I’ve forgotten anything or if there’s anything else you want to come and get, do let me know.

I hope you’re okay.

Lucas

There’s no kiss on it. Eight years together, and I don’t even get a measly X tagged thoughtlessly on the end. My eyes trace over his name. Lucas and Lucie—even our names match. Everyone thought that was a sign we were meant to be. Spoiler alert: everyone was wrong.

I screw his note into a ball, carelessly tossing it into the top box, pushing the packages against the wall with my foot.

When I stormed out of our/his fancy apartment three months ago after coming home and catching my loving fiancé screwing his nineteen-year-old personal trainer on our/his couch, I packed up all my clothes, shoes, and a couple of my favourite handbags, and I left without looking back. Whatever is in these boxes is nothing I want, likely just junk and knickknacks accumulated over the span of our years together. Merely brainless and meaningless tat that defined our whole lives at one time, now demoted to being unwanted and dumped in a box to collect dust.

The boxes clutter the hallway and stop me from being able to close the front door properly, so I grab the handle of the suitcase and drag it down the hallway to my room. It’s not exactly the nicest room in the world. Plain magnolia walls, accentuated with empty picture hooks and Blu-Tack grease marks, and cheap pine furniture the bestie and I sourced from the local charity shop. It’s not the luxurious grandeur of the trendy, sparkly two-bed apartment Lucas and I renovated together. I can’t complain