Pepper didn’t go home.

Or at least not completely.

She knocked on Samantha’s door and promptly burst into tears.

“That bad, huh?” Samantha quipped, throwing an arm around Pepper’s shoulders and ushering her inside. “Come sit on the couch. I’ll grab wine.”

Pepper nodded, hands still gripping Samantha’s killer heels as she moved to sit down.

“Here.” Samantha thrust a box of tissues in her hands.

“Sorry,” she sniffed, swallowing down the tears and trying to get herself under control.

“Take your time,” Samantha said. “But at least tell me if I need to call the police.”

That dried Pepper’s eyes. “Police?”

“You’re dress is ruined, you’re limping, and your arm is all scraped up.”

She glanced down, took in the beautiful—ruined—emerald silk, the red marks on her arm, her swollen ankle. “Trademark Pep,” she muttered.

“What?” Samantha asked.

“My date didn’t hurt me. He didn’t have the chance to even attempt it, considering that Derek crashed our table approximately two-point-two seconds after we’d sat down.”

Her friend gasped, plunking onto the couch and setting a bottle and second glass on the coffee table. “You’re kidding.”

“Unfortunately not.”

“I knew it!”

“You did not.”

“Derek likes you Pepper. Anyone could see that.”

“You’re wrong,” she said, even as her mind flashed back to the kiss. God, it had been good. Probably the hottest kiss of her whole flipping life.

Which was just damn perfect.

Derek. Annoying, persistent man. Ruiner of perfectly average and acceptable kiss memories.

“I’m not wrong,” Samantha persisted. “I know when a man wants—” Her eyes dimmed, smile becoming forced. “Anyway, anyone could see the man is crazy about you.”

“He’s here because my father is funding his next movie and asked Derek to keep an eye on me.”

Samantha’s mouth dropped open.

Pepper put her hand up. “And before you ask, I know because he told me.”

Her friend flopped back against the couch. “Well, damn. I thought—” She broke off again and cleared her throat. “Obviously, I’m no expert on men.”

Pepper scoffed. “You’ve been married for a decade. I think you’re doing better than I am.”

“And look at me.” Samantha’s tone was so bitter that for a moment, Pepper was taken aback. “It’s Friday night. I’m alone. Just as I’ve been every other Friday night for the last twenty-two weeks. I know. Because I counted.” She swept her arm out. “Look. I’ve literally counted.”

Pepper glanced around the room. The cottage was a mirror image of hers, a small, cozy family room, an open-concept kitchen with a small breakfast nook. Only Samantha’s held toys and a play kitchen.

It had felt comfortable from the first time Pepper had visited for dinner—after two sandcastle-building play dates on the beach with Rylie. The couch was covered in a soft blue microfiber and a floral chair and ottoman took up one corner. Samantha had painted the wooden furniture white and given it a slightly distressed appearance. Shabby-chic, beachfront cozy, whatever a designer would call it, the home was . . . well, homey.

Reality TV played quietly in the background, wine and glasses sat on the table, but that wasn’t what caught Pepper’s focus. No, instead her attention was drawn to the day planner draped over one arm of the couch.

“Read it,” Samantha said then rolled her eyes. “Let me just take over the entire conversation and make it all about me.” She shook her head and reached for the bottle of wine. “Nevermi—”

“It’s fine. I—”

Samantha pulled out the cork and poured two glasses. She left them on the table as she stood. “Let me get you some pajamas. You have to be freezing.”

Pepper picked up the planner.

A ribbon marked the date, and she left it there as she scrolled back through the pages. Rylie’s activities made up most of the writing. Ballet class, swim team, Girl Scouts. But there were also lesson plans and . . . blue lines at the top of every page.

She squinted. No. They were really long arrows. That extended over multiple days.

The same four words repeated along each of them.

Brian—out of town.

Pepper blinked, flipped through more pages, more evidence of a life, of play dates and practices, of recitals and field trips.

And Brian out of town.

“I think he’s having an affair,” Samantha’s voice was sad. “The man who was supposed to be the love of my life is having an affair.”

Pepper’s breath hissed out. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty damn sure.” A pause as Samantha set a T-shirt and pair of sweats in Pepper’s lap. “I got an email from a woman. With pictures—” Her breath caught. “Of the two of them.”

“Oh my God. Who would do that?”

Samantha snorted derisively. “I know lots of people who would do that.” She gave Pepper an arch look. “And I think you do, too.”

Unfortunately, she guessed she did.

Samantha picked up the glasses and handed her one. “Now, enough about me. Why don’t you change out of those clothes and tell me how you ended up looking like a walking, talking milkshake?”