“Hey, have you seen my clinic jacket?” Josh said, riffling through the laundry basket sitting on the love seat. “I need it tomorrow.”
“Haven’t seen it,” Ellery said, covertly watching him but pretending she was engrossed in her mother’s email. Her fiancé had come home late, and the dinner she’d fixed to celebrate their eighteen-month anniversary had congealed into something inedible.
“Damn, effing Forester wants us to wear them tomorrow. He does this crap, making us jump through his hoops, so he can humiliate someone. Forecast for tomorrow: a wet one for the schmuck who forgets the jacket,” Josh said, not bothering to look her way as he next went for the small coat closet.
Ellery had tried to punish him with her silence, but he hadn’t even noticed. She and Josh had gotten engaged at the end of the summer when they’d gone with her father and his girlfriend, Cindy, to Seaside, Florida. The marriage proposal had been expected and perfect—a sunset, a table set with champagne, and waves crashing in the distance. The engagement ring was almost ridiculously too big, and Josh had dropped to a knee even though she knew he hated getting his pants sandy. They’d moved into the adorable town house in August, and Ellery had carefully constructed a tasteful, fun vibe for the place. Clean lines, whimsy, and comfortable furniture they could use once they bought a house. Everything should be gravy.
Except it wasn’t.
Because Josh had spent every waking moment of the last month and a half either studying with his study group or studying by himself. He ate breakfast while tapping on his computer and came to bed long after she’d turned off her bedside table lamp. They’d had sex once since medical school had started. And it hadn’t been great. More like an afterthought.
“Maybe you left it in your car?” she asked, tapping the icon that would close the email from Evan McCallum.
“Nah, I already checked there,” he said, going into the kitchen and opening the fridge to take out the bottle of wine she’d been saving to celebrate their eighteen-month anniversary. It didn’t escape her that he was uncorking a bottle from Evan’s winery they’d purchased at the farmers’ market.
Evan McCallum had emailed her mother months ago, asking if she would be the guest author for his daughter’s school’s Book Week in the spring. He’d written a clever email to Dixie Doodle, inviting the flighty poodle to attend and bring her owner if she must. Ironically, Evan’s email had landed in her mother’s overflowing in-box the day Ellery had learned J.J. Krause had given her position to Frankie Rizzo. And really, who even made up a name that bad? And wore fedoras and wing tips with rolled-up jeans. Can you say Trying too damned hard?
So the email had felt prophetic.
She’d written Evan back as her mother, apologizing for being months late in answering and then explaining she couldn’t commit to the spring date until she heard from her publisher and the network. Ellery had been clever herself, writing as the poodle, which had amused Evan. Right after she emailed him, she’d looked him up on Facebook. She wasn’t even sure why. Maybe because he lived fairly close. Or maybe because she’d been searching for something to distract her. Evan didn’t have a personal page, but his vineyard had one. There were pictures of a handsome man with a too-engaging smile wearing a cowboy hat and directing workers harvesting the vines. In one picture an adorable redheaded little girl clung to his leg. She looked at that picture four times that night. He seemed so . . . intriguing.
Then she’d seen his wine at the farmers’ market, and it felt like the universe was telling her something. What that was, she had no clue. But since then, they’d been exchanging emails almost daily, and she’d found herself telling Evan things she’d never told anyone else. Like about her nightmares, her fear of failure, and how frustrating rejection had been. She’d even mentioned the problems her “daughter” was having with her career and engagement. She wasn’t sure why she did this. He was a stranger, but somehow it felt safe, as if he weren’t real. Like the harmless fan mail she’d sent weekly to the Jonas Brothers when she was twelve. The boy group had been nebulous, too far away to be relevant in her life.