“And he was wrong,” I say plainly.
Fisher smiles and his chest shakes like he’s holding back a laugh. “Keep telling yourself that. But I think you very much like the way your husband looks.”
Frowning, I ignore him and focus on the malt. It might be December but in Miami you wouldn’t know that and it’s already melting from its original thick consistency.
We might not be talking, but I canfeelhis gloat. As much as I’d like to open my mouth and drag this out, I know there’s no changing his mind. He knows he’s right and no amount of lying on my end is going to change that.
CHAPTER 22
FISHER
When I step backto admire my handiwork, I can easily admit two things.
Number one that Ebba’s apartment is already looking much more like her.
Number two that I did go overboard, but I don’t care.
I couldn’t sleep again so I ended up cracking open the cans of paint and getting to work. I had already cut the pieces of wood yesterday to make assembling the design I wanted to make on the wall behind her desk easier. Using Velcro to attach the pieces worked better than I thought it would and adds some interest to the wall.
I’ve been as quiet as possible while working and Ebba’s stayed asleep—or I assume she has since she hasn’t burst out of her room to berate me for waking her up.
It’s nearing four in the morning, so I close the paint cans and cover what’s left in the pan with saran wrap. I opened the door to her balcony to let fresh air in while I was painting, and I decide to leave it open, so I don’t inhale the fumes if I do manage to get a few hours of sleep.
I have a rental truck set to pick up at ten so we can grab the couch from her storage unit and any other knickknacks we canfind. Something tells me that thing is going to be filled with a treasure trove of our past.
“Hey.”
The word penetrates the recesses of my dreamlike state, but I can’t muster the energy to open my eyes.
“Hey.” A sound like snapping fingers. “Fisher?”
I make a humming sound in response.
“You need to wake up. It’s nine-thirty.”
My eyes pop open wide. “Oh shit.” I sit up quickly and nearly take Ebba out with my forehead, but luckily she jerks back just in time. “Sorry.” Shoving the blanket off, I stand and head for the bathroom, calling over my shoulder, “Thanks for waking me up.”
“You’re welcome. I made coffee too.”
“Bless you.”
I’ve almost latched the bathroom door when she says, “You did a lot of work while I was sleeping. It looks great, Fisher. Truly.”
I open the door wider. My grin is so big it makes my cheeks hurt. “Really?”
“Really,” she replies.
I know it’s stupid, but her approval makes me feel like I’ve won something.
Since time is of the essence, I skip shaving and stick to the basics. In record time, I step out in a change of clothes, thankful that I had the forethought to put an outfit in here last night.
Ebba looks up from her phone. She has her curls pinned back along the sides and she’s wearing a creamy blouse-like top and silky looking pink skirt with a pattern I can’t quite decipher.
“Ready?” There’s a hesitancy to her voice when she asks the question.
“Yeah, the rental truck place isn’t far from here. We’ll pick it up and head to your unit.”
She grabs her purse and slings it over her shoulder. “Oh, your coffee,” she says, turning back around before she reaches the door and swiping a to-go cup from the counter. “And I made you a sandwich too.” She holds out both the cup, and a foil wrapped square to me. “Don’t read into this,” she adds, and I wonder if I’m making some lovey-dovey face at her—but then again, she probably just knows me that well.