Between You Me and Us

  Between You Me and Us

  Kate Smith

  Copyright © 2020 Kate Smith

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted material in violation of the author’s rights.

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-9993893-7-6

  Paperback ISBN-978-1-9993893-6-9

  The Hamilton Series

  Everything we Lost The Hamilton Series #1

  Everything for Love The Hamilton Series #2

  Never Let You Fall The Hamilton Series #3

  Everything left Unsaid The Hamilton Series #4

  Everything we Dream The Hamilton Series #5

  Everything we Promised The Hamilton Series #6

  Prologue

  Every day since my trip to Toronto to attend the Celebration of Happiness, my life had grown infinitely more complicated. I’d descended deep into this new sum total of my existence. Evading phone calls. Burying myself in busyness. Avoiding the embarrassment of justifications. I couldn’t explain. Not to anyone; least of all myself.

  Disappearing. Becoming the invisible woman. Enticing. If only I could accomplish complete anonymity. Fade to black.

  Perspiration trickled down my back as I arched into the next pose, planting each foot with purpose, absorbing the faint burble of the diffuser and the light aroma of some supposedly uplifting and calming yoga blend.

  What better way to escape responsibility and confrontation in the middle of the afternoon on a Thursday besides a yoga class? Except this room, packed with perspiring bodies wrapped in colourful spandex, made me feel even more exposed, rather than providing adequate cover.

  Most of the city’s residents should be locked in corporate battle or slaving for that all-important pay cheque. So why were all these yoga devotees crammed into this tiny room when all I craved was peace and a chance to replenish my reserves?

  Get back to work, slackers.

  The resident yogi frowned at my smothered giggle.

  I bit my lip. Hard. It wasn’t even funny. Don’t even know how that snicker sneaked out. Must be losing it.

  “Breathe, everyone. Slowly. Deeply,” the yogi said. “In for five …”

  I took her advice and focussed on the gurgling diffuser with its light orange and patchouli scented mist. In … one … two … Maybe that observation was directed at myself, anyway. Work was where I should be, and would be, if I hadn’t begged for one of my rare personal days.

  No argument came from the head pharmacist at the hospital. “Have a relaxing day, Amara. You deserve the break,” she said, her soft words accompanied by a gentle smile. “After everything.”

  Huh. Everything. My lips twisted even as I pressed my flattened palms together, forming a rock-steady tree with the sole of my foot tucked inward against my leg. My distress over Jake must be showing. Or the pain over my failure with Kyle. Or that looming fear of remaining forever alone at the ripe old age of nearing-thirty. Or maybe it was the endless tick-tock as my biological clock revved, fuelled by a wedding and endless talk about kids. Or my overall sense of doom. My full smorgasbord of angst options served up for everyone’s entertainment.

  On cue, I moved into mountain pose, pushing out the tiny bosom that accompanied my touch-too-thin athletic frame.

  Perhaps I wasn’t as level as I hoped, even when focussed on being the consummate professional. It seemed impossible to maintain that calm and collected external sereneness on the busiest and most stressful of days. Was I inadvertently projecting my turmoil far and wide? Maybe my colleagues rolled their eyes in the background as I mired myself in a funk.

  “Lengthen those backs.” Our yogi’s gentle voice cut into my thoughts. “Breathe.”

  I opened my eyes, cringing at the intensity of her stare under arched eyebrows.

  Ah. In … one … two …

  “And slowly into warrior.”

  Jake. His refusal to cut this off. Reeling me in, begging forgiveness, apologizing, texting daily, imploring me to call him. Then he’d sent a heart-rending missive tucked inside the ridiculous kiss-up display of stargazer lilies. Lucky for him, I hadn’t dumped the whole works into the nearest trash bin.

  Ha. Never. The vibrant mass of delicate blossoms tugged the slender strings of my heart, transporting me to that long-ago night. Me, bending to Jake’s emotional and masterful twist, sucked in by flowers.

  “Loosen up.” A soft tap on my wrist pulled me into the present. “Relax. Breathe.”

  I uncurled my fists one finger at a time and shook out my hands before stretching into the next pose. In … one … two …

  Kyle. Sending me asinine, cryptic texts. No explanation. No I’m sorry. No nothing. Well, except for that “call me, we need to talk” nonsense.

  Wiggling my jaw to ease the ache, I bowed into the next pose, all the while my gaze flitted left to right, right to left. Could anyone hear my teeth grinding?

  “Focus,” the yogi murmured as she sidled past.

  Right. In … one … two …

  My not-so-lovely soon-to-be-ex-husband and his bold, “Why haven’t you been to the lawyer yet?” A stellar question from a brilliant mind. It wasn’t that I held any delusions. My marriage was kaput. Totalled. Irretrievably over. A fact I accepted. Welcomed, even. Yet my heart begged for rescue from underneath the crushing defeat, remaining raw, battered, and bruised.

  “Clear your mind,” came the whisper as the slim figure stole through our contorted figures, all manifesting various renditions of an extended triangle. The gentle reminder could be for the whole class, but realistically, this was directed at me, as was her benevolent expression.

  Right. In … one … two … Clear the energy. Reframe the thoughts. So many good intentions, but the unforgotten, unforgiven men from my former life skulked through my reflections, clouding me in a dense fog. Faithless men whose volley of strategic and crippling body punches sent me reeling.

  I sucked for breath, searching for my sacred mantra, but finding only a dull echo. Never enough. Unlovable and unloved. Unappreciated. Irretrievably broken and bent. Beyond redemption. Or worse; over-analytical hot mess.

  The counters to these floated into my mind. Okay as I am. Loved. Strong and independent. Living my best life, daily. Believe. Believe. Damn In … one … two … Mantras supposedly grounded and soothed, ending that enduring ache. Perhaps they did, if one believed in that sort of thing. Out … one … two … three …

  Why drag this out? No reason. None at all. There were no second chances. Not with Kyle. Never with Jake. Only the delusional might believe any of this was fixable. In … one … two … three … Right. Time to call and make that appointment. I closed my eyes, my head shaking of its own accord. Signing those papers turned my abject failure into certain reality.

  Envisioning a future with Jake in my current state of being was ludicrous. A monumental mistake, shredding me, surfacing every bleak and vulnerable moment of my past. The wedding.

  If only I’d had the sense to stay home.

  Chapter 1

  Here I was—completely committed, yet totally miserable. Why? Why subject myself to this? It wasn’t like I had untold wealth to pay for two fabulous new outfits, or a direct flight from Vancouver to Toronto, or even the overpriced five-star hotel. My credit card protested the top-tier gift from the couple’s wedding registry, bought during a moment of guilt-induced weakness. Ah, guilt. The age-old
inconvenient lure to do things you shouldn’t.

  I smoothed the scarlet dress over my hips and squared my shoulders, grateful for the tiny boost of confidence. Time to resign myself to a fate of awkward reunions and false levity, but at least I didn’t have to walk down the aisle in a froth of blue chiffon, only to stand mere metres away from blissful best man, Jake, while his lovely wife looked on.

  Taking one wobbly step forward, then two side-steps to dodge the partiers milling about inside, became its own feat of courage. I plastered on a smile and scanned the room, searching the crowd for familiar faces. Wait. I’d spotted it. Nirvana. Or at least close enough for tonight. Situated toward the back of the dim room, the gleaming, strobe-lit bar beckoned. Yup, a drink would loosen me up. Or maybe it would take two. Whatever. Nobody would keep track, especially not me. As long as I avoided the dreaded drunken striptease, getting a little tipsy was no big deal.

  “Amara.” Vivienne, the maid of honour and a close friend from university, popped out of the crowd. “About time you got here.”

  “Viv!” I threw my arms around her.

  “So glad you came.” She curved an arm around my waist and drew me onto the dance floor. “Missed you,” she mouthed, pressing her hip to mine.

  As we swayed to the music, thoughts niggled at me. Why had I cut myself off? Why had I even run in the first place? No. Absolutely no. Reminiscing and pining were rock-solid off-limits for tonight. Celebrating my amazing friend at this swanky bachelorette party took first priority. “Where is the bride, anyhow?”

  “Dara’s dancing,” Vivienne said, fluttering her fingers toward the packed floor. “You look amazing.” She caught a strand of my dark curly hair, fluffing it slightly. “Love that you grew this out and left it natural. Gorgeous.”

  Too soon, Viv released me, returning to her solitary moves, and my eyes drifted closed. I lifted my arms and lost myself in the steady thump. Song after song blended, real life fading into the background.

  Too soon, Vivienne’s light touch on my arm dragged me back to reality. She fanned herself and pointed to a table half-surrounded by party guests. “I’m parched.”

  A server descended the second we reached the table, dropping off several drinks before taking our order and hurrying toward the bar.

  Vivienne leaned in close. “Next round, make it two so you can catch up.”

  My thoughts exactly. Liquid courage may be the only thing that got me through this weekend.

  “Wish you could have joined us for the shower,” Vivienne said.

  “Sorry I missed it.” I pasted on a fresh smile. No matter how much I adored my friend, I couldn’t have faced the madness of a bridal shower. People would ask too many questions about my defunct marriage at a time when my friend was launching into her happy new life. “How was that?” I asked, accepting my extra-dry martini from the server.

  “Ohhh! The guys will be here soon.” A woman on my left craned her neck, peering toward the door.

  “The guys?” I gulped several mouthfuls of my drink and glanced toward the entrance while trying to place her vaguely familiar face. Brief flashes connected in my mind. The woman had hovered on the periphery of our group at Dalhousie University before Jake and I became an item. Kara? Carmen?

  “The men from the bachelor party. I hear there will be several eligible hotties.” She performed a small jig, wiggling her hips, her breasts quivering under her low-cut top. “Got my eye on a doctor.”

  “Do you remember Celia?” Vivienne whispered in my ear. “She’s a bridesmaid. It should have been you Dara asked, not her.”

  Right. Celia. Yes, yes. I wrinkled my nose as I pictured that long-ago night at one of our regular haunts, and the woman’s blatant passes at pretty much anything male that moved. Her constant ogling of Jake irked me, though that had been before he and I became an us. “It’s fine, Viv. I’m happier being a guest. Imagine how strange it would be to—”

  Celia’s shrill squeal drowned out everything but the thud of the bass and she, along with several of the other ladies, abandoned the table. The decibel level rose as the fresh batch of men flooded into the room. Fortunately, Jake didn’t seem to be among the new arrivals, so I drained my drink and shook out my tense muscles.

  “Now the real partying begins, just like old times.” Vivienne sucked back the last of her cocktail and rose from her seat in one lithe move, tugging on my arm and dragging me into the crush on the dance floor.

  * * *

  When I finally made it to the bar and claimed a stool, I was hot and flushed, suffering from aching feet and a burning throat. “Water, please,” I said, fanning myself.

  The bartender nodded and winked as he served up a tumbler of ice water. Those blue eyes and his sexy scruff sent my heart racing, though he was a touch young. Early twenties, if I was lucky, while I was fast approaching the big three-zero.

  He placed a flute in front of me, and I returned his smile, tracing a finger along the rim and admiring the artfully curled lemon peel. “Champagne?”

  “Close. It’s a French 75.” Flirty bartender winked. “An elegant drink for a beautiful lady. On the house.” He wiggled his brows before turning to the next person in line.

  I took an experimental sip, detecting hints of gin and lemon, the tingly champagne bubbles tickling my tongue. Delicious. After a slight nod and smile at the bartender, I turned to observe the continuing action, Celia’s teal dress catching my eye. Yup, she’d caught her first victim, hauling the poor soul toward the crowded patch of floor in the centre of the room.

  Wait. Was that …? I squinted at the figure in the well-cut suit. He was thinner than I remembered. A touch scruffier, too, with his hair curling over his collar, the shadow of a beard darkening his jawline. Hmmm. This rough and tumble yet thoroughly hot and sexy look suited Jake. Married looked mighty fine on the man, even if I hated that another woman had brought him the happiness I’d only dreamed of.

  Jake’s amber eyes paired with his dark, silky hair and broad shoulders always had an immediate effect on women, throwing their libido into overdrive. In the early days of our relationship, I’m sure I’d worn an expression similar to the one Celia wore now, many, many times. I’d often wondered why he’d picked me when he could have chosen one of the model-perfect blondes who continually flirted with him whenever we ventured into public. On those occasions, he’d been polite but never returned their blatant interest.

  It seemed nothing had changed. Politeness ruled as he performed his obligatory best man duties, including dancing with the flirty bridesmaid. Though if he were my husband, I’d be stepping in and telling that particular pushy woman shaking her assets in his face to shove off. Where was his wife, anyhow?

  I sighed. None of my business, that’s where. More unwelcome news greeted me as I turned, searching for the adorable bartender, but a slender blonde with a pixie cut had replaced him. Damn. Now I had nothing to do but stare into my half-empty drink, avoiding the sight of my ex-boyfriend cutting those moves on the floor. I downed the remainder, nodding as the new bartender motioned to my empty glass, then I chanced a look over my shoulder. Time to leave, or should I risk my ex-love catching me ogling him with pathetic longing? Maybe I should hang out until his wife made an appearance and satisfy my curiosity about Mrs. Cavallaro.

  “Hi.” A blond man leaned on the bar beside me, his chin tipped down. “Care to dance?”

  I tilted my head as he smiled, and his gaze travelled upward, revealing startling blue eyes. That’s right, dude. Eyes go up here, not down there. I tugged at my dress and shook my head. The blue-eyed cutie, who shrugged and moved on to the woman three seats away, would only be a risky distraction bound to drop me into the line of fire. The minute I hit the floor, Jake would spot me, and nothing would make me happier than buckling into my seat for the return flight to Vancouver without engaging in a single awkward conversation with my ex-boyfriend.

  However, that didn’t stop me from tormenting myself as I settled in with another drink. The action on th
e floor drew my attention, and I peered through the crowd, keeping tabs as Celia kept Jake on the floor for a second and third song.

  When the strains of a slow melody floated through the air, Jake leaned in, saying something to the woman before breaking away and heading toward the far side of the club.

  Celia scouted his progress, a pout forming as she approached the bar and flagged down the bartender. She arched one over-plucked brow as she waited for her cosmopolitan. “Why are you sitting here … alone?”

  I shrugged. “I’m recuperating.”

  “How will you find a man if you don’t join the fun? Weddings are for hot drunken romps between the sheets. You should get out there.” She scooped up her glass, sucking down the drink in seconds, still scanning the dance floor. Her eyes lit up. “My good doctor is back. Maybe later he’ll give me a physical.” She fluttered her fingers and trotted away with tiny, mincing steps.

  “He’s married,” I said, even though Celia was half-way across the floor. “Anyway, he’s not that kind of doctor.” But if the woman didn’t care about the wife, why would she care that Jakob Miguel Cavallaro was a marine biologist who’d never given a physical in his life? Not an official one, anyhow.

  I waved a trembling hand at the bartender and motioned to the empty flute, amazed at Celia’s progress in her tottery heels as she bore down on the group of men Jake had joined.

  Jake’s eyes narrowed in the direction of the advancing bridesmaid, then he ducked into the crowd, reappearing moments later, weaving toward the bar. The familiar dimple creased his right cheek. “Well, well. Imagine running into you here.” He leaned on the bar and flagged down the bartender, the gold ring on his left hand flashing. “Whiskey, please, and another drink for Amara here. Make mine a double.” When our drinks arrived, he said, “Can you charge these to room 3412? Thanks.” He promptly downed a good portion of his whiskey. “Where’s your other half? I was looking forward to meeting the man who finally won you over.”