Chapter Eighteen

The house felt too big. Too quiet.

Jim leaned against the kitchen counter, staring at the covered dish Rory had left in the fridge with a sticky note on top: Heat at 375°F for 20 minutes. You’ll love it. – R.

His jaw clenched as he read the note again, crumpling it slightly in his hand. The gesture was thoughtful, sweet even, but that was the problem. Everything about Rory was thoughtful. The way she made sure he always had food, how she pretended not to notice when he spent too much time in the pool house, and how she made him feel cared for in ways that chipped at his armor piece by piece.

It drove him crazy.

The microwave beeped, pulling him from his thoughts. Jim retrieved his reheated meal, the warmth of the ceramic dish almost burning his hands. He didn’t need Rory’s food. He coul……