French Roast by Ava Miles Page A

months. “If you think that wipes away your guilt, you’re dead wrong.”
    He laid the flowers down and drilled her with an icy stare. “I’m not going to argue with you.”
    Her rage bloomed like a mushroom cloud. “You made her last months miserable.”
    “Stop this,” he said, shoving blond hair out of his eyes when the wind gusted. “I’m grieving too. I know you don’t want to believe that, but just because Jemma and I broke up doesn’t mean I stopped caring for her. Jesus, Jill.”
    She trudged around the grave, her shoes sinking into the snow. “You broke her heart in two, and then you just had to show up with a new girl at the Halloween party to shove it in her face. That’s the last memory Jemma had, Pete.”
    He thrust his gloved hand in the air. “Believe me when I say this: If I had known what would have happened that night, I never would have come. I can’t talk about this anymore.”
    Even hearing the strain in his voice, she couldn’t forgive him. He shouldn’t have wanted anyone else.
    “What the hell are you doing here without your coat?” He pulled off his North Face jacket and shoved her into it. “You’re freezing.”
    “Just leave…me…alone.” Her teeth chattered.
    “You can give my jacket to Brian,” he said as he took off down the path, not looking back. His Jeep fishtailed around the corner a few moments later.
    “Oh, Jemma. Pete gave me his jacket.” His kindness—a reminder of the friendship they no longer shared—snapped the ribbons of control. The sobs rushed up her chest and out of her throat with a roar. She clutched the tombstone and held on.
    “Jill,” she heard Brian say as he rounded the bench. His strong hands lifted her and pulled her into his warm body. “Don’t cry.”
    The arms holding her were giving her the gentleness she’d craved. Yet she pushed back. “Leave me alone.”
    ***
    Brian took note of the daisies and Pete’s jacket. So Jill and Pete had had a run-in, too. As if things weren’t bad enough. Jill had a huge heart, but it was a two-sided coin. When her emotions were positive, they were as inviting as the Ferris wheel. When they went negative, they were like a class-5 hurricane.
    He was about to get the ass-kicking he deserved.
    He planted his feet and hunched his shoulders against the brisk wind coming down from the mountain. “We need to talk about—”
    “Your French lover? You lied to me again!” She lifted her chin, a proud move at odds with the mascara streaking down her face. “How could you? I thought we were getting close.”
    “We are.” He took a deep breath. Her obvious pain deepened his guilt. “I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know what else to say. Let’s go somewhere and talk. You’re freezing.” She stepped away when he reached for her, making his gut clench. “Jill, please don’t turn away. We’ve come so far.” His mind flashed to those dismal months after graduation when she wouldn’t accept any of his calls. Panic descended.
    “Have we? From where I’m standing, you wouldn’t have lied to me if we’d come so far. How could you not have told me about her?”
    “It wasn’t relevant to us.”
    “I asked you point blank, and you don’t think it’s relevant to us?” She hit her forehead. “Gee, why didn’t I think of that?”
    “Because you take everything too seriously,” he stormed, his frustration with himself and her blurring what was right and wrong. “I was with Simca in New York. It was…complicated.” Her mouth formed a thin, straight line so he rushed on. “I told you I wasn’t a monk. It ended before I came back here.”
    “I’m not mad you were with someone, but you lied about there being anyone special.” Her green eyes cut into him like lasers. “It was serious enough for her to come here. Have you been in touch with her?”
    It hadn’t occurred to him that she’d think that. He took her shoulders and rubbed them briskly. “No! I didn’t answer any of her calls or texts.