had arrived. Nothing new in that. I opened the text and ignored the rest.
“You sent Gran flowers?” I asked, turning to Patrick.
Two small spots of pink blossomed on his cheeks. “Figured I better keep Harold on his toes.”
“Thank you.”
“Sure,” he said, without meeting my eyes.
“I suggested he send some to you as well,” said Mei. “But he said you had allergies.”
“Allergies?” It wasn’t as if I needed flowers, but still. “Right.”
“Such a bummer.” Mei smiled. “I love getting flowers.”
Patrick, meanwhile, seemed mostly miserable, all huddled up down his end of the couch. This was right and just, since he’d vetoed all flowers for me forever. Just joking. Business arrangement. No flowers required. An unnecessary expense.
“Have you done the sensible thing and taken some Advil?” I asked. “Rehydrated with water?”
“I’m fine,” he told the ground.
“Oh, really? Because you look like shit.”
Patrick’s laugh was rough. “Thanks, sunshine.”
I just shook my head.
“She’s right,” said Mei. “And the photographer and his crew will be here soon.”
“That’s today?” asked Patrick, doing a very convincing portrayal of a deer caught in headlights. A sickly deer who needed a nap and some Hydralyte.
“Yep. What exactly did you do last night, Paddy?” asked Mei with interest. “I’m sensing some tension here.”
“I know what you were doing,” said Angie. “And you’re damn lucky no paparazzi were following you.”
Which was when the door to the spare room opened and the tall, lanky man wearing jeans and not a hell of a lot else wandered down the hallway scratching at his flat belly. Lots of tattoos. Longish straight blond hair. I’d been unaware we’d gained another house guest. Let alone one who looked like he’d just stepped out of the pages of Lady Boner Weekly. Which wasn’t actually a thing, but probably should be. I mean, he was no Patrick Walsh, but still . . .
“Holy hell,” was all he said, voice rough.
“Hi, Jack.” Mei waved. “Happy divorce. What is this, the second one?”
“Who’s keeping count?” The dude yawned loud and proud. “Coffee?”
“In the kitchen. Help yourself.”
“Oh, shit,” he said, catching sight of me on the couch. Immediately he came toward me with a hand outstretched. “You must be Norah. Damn good to meet you. Patrick wouldn’t shut up about you last night. Cole either, for that matter.”
“Is that so?” I asked, bemused.
He took both of my hands, studying the rock on my wedding finger. “I would have bought you a bigger one.”
“Fuck off,” grumbled Patrick, slumping farther down in his seat.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” asked Jack, still holding my hands. Which was odd.
Patrick ignored him.
I smiled and slipped my hands out of his hold. “I take it you’re Jack?”
“The son of rock legend Angus Gilmour,” said Angie, looking down her nose. “Jack is best known for playing lead guitar in his father’s band before they had a very public falling out. After which he moved on to working with some of the biggest and best acts in the industry. His hobbies include trashing hotel rooms—”
“That only happened one time,” he groaned.
“Riding a motorcycle through the house.”
“I was twelve and Dad thought it was funny.”
“Right up until he found out you’d ruined his Persian rug.”
Jack slumped onto the couch beside me. “Tell me all about yourself, Norah.”
“Aren’t you even going to say a proper hello?” asked Angie.
“You always were my favorite stepmom, Angie,” said Jack. “You know that.”
“Mm.” Angie blew out a slow breath. “Dating your father was the second worst mistake I ever made. But it was the nineties. Things happened. You, however . . . what the hell did you think you were doing pouring liquor down Patrick’s throat and dragging him around strip joints until the small hours of the morning?”
Jack groaned. “It was a burlesque club Cole’s thinking of buying. Quite a cool place, actually.”
“Huh.” And I didn’t mean to say that in a judgy tone; it just came out that way. Oops.
“While I’m prepared to admit that the drinking may have gotten ever so slightly out of hand,” said Jack, “nothing of interest really happened, I swear.”
I opened my mouth. Then I shut it. Because that was the smart thing to do. Also, Patrick was watching me.
Angie, however, did not look impressed. I got to my feet and heading for the kitchen. I grabbed the Advil and a bottle of water and took them to my fake fiancé still slumped on the couch. “Take these. You need them.”
“Thanks,” he said. Voice about a thousand times deeper and more pain-filled than normal.
“I was really hoping