their feelings for each other winding down or devolving. No, their relationship had ended abruptly one night, like a widow-maker heart attack or a fatal head-on collision. One minute they were together, happy, connected, enmeshed…and the next, it was over.
So, he supposed, it wasn’t like he should be surprised that there hadn’t been any closure. They both—he in particular—had their own steamer-trunk-sized baggage they were toting around.
He wondered if that was part of the reason she was so adamant about him not hanging at the theater. Because she had baggage—and not just from him—and she just didn’t want to deal with it.
Unfinished business.
But here she was—at his house, showering in his shower (he didn’t even want to think about that…but then, of course he did)—and now, after the weird-as-fuck events at the theater, they had something inescapable in common besides their shared history. He wasn’t going to let her leave until they at least talked about that: who and why someone was trying to scare her away from the theater.
But Jake wasn’t so confident that he didn’t hedge his bets. So he wasn’t going to rely on just two wine glasses and a simple bottle of Pinot gris.
Since she was still busy in the shower, that gave him time to put some other stuff together. His sister Irene had given him a fancy wooden serving tray for a housewarming gift, and as Pop didn’t care about visual aesthetics—and neither did Declan, Baxter, or Drew—Jake hadn’t had any reason to break it out yet. Being new in town, he didn’t get many visitors except for the guys working on his house.
He pulled out some Pointe Reyes marbled blue cheese that was soft enough to spread like butter and set it on a small plate on the tray. Then he dumped olives—briny Kalamata, buttery Castelvetrano, and some pinkie-nail-sized black ones that he didn’t know the name of—along with a small scoop of almonds into four tiny dishes that were meant for soy sauce with sushi. Then he arranged them in a semicircle around the cheese.
It might not be Martha Stewart or Queer Eye, he thought, surveying the presentation, but at least it wasn’t College Boy Beer Nuts. His tastes—and budget—had improved in the last decade.
The last addition to the tray was one he actually agonized over for a few minutes. Crackers—he had some really nice artisan ones—or bread that he’d made himself?
Crackers were fancier, and putting out his own bread might be self-serving…but it was really good bread and fresh just this morning, and the crackers would keep…but there were fewer carbs with crackers (did she care about carbs? Maybe. Probably.)…
Hell.
He could still hear the shower running, and was pretty sure she was singing in it. He wondered what song was on her mind and in her heart today.
Jake smiled to himself. Vivien always sang in the shower, and whatever ballad or tune she was belting gave a good indication of her mood. She had a stunning voice—clear, strong, and vibrant—and more often than not, hearing her sing something like “Defying Gravity” or “Blue Skies” had put him in a good mood too.
There were a few times he’d slip into the shower with her and join her in a duet—often something from Phantom, although another of her favorites, which she had taught him, was from Annie Get Your Gun. Those duets had ended up far differently in the shower than they did onstage…to their mutual satisfaction.
With such a pleasant memory fresh in his mind, he started humming “Anything You Can Do (I Can Do Better)” as he debated between crackers and bread.
When he heard the sound of a blow dryer (he didn’t own a blow dryer) from the bathroom, he knew he couldn’t waffle any longer.
So he took the round loaf of bread he’d made early that morning in between calls during his shift and sliced a few pieces. Then he cut them in half so they were the shape of flattish semicircles and fanned them out on one side of the tray. A small dish of olive oil followed—he was half Italian; it was a requirement—and by then he realized he needed napkins and butter and cheese knives, a spoon for the almonds, toothpicks for the olives…maybe small cocktail plates, too (which he didn’t have, so he had to skip).
He’d just come back in from carrying the tray out to the patio when he heard the sound of Vivien’s footsteps. Perfect timing.
He poured two glasses of wine and stuck the bottle