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  “You were right to file single then, of course.” His gaze fell to the letter.

  “How can I fix this?”

  “Well, if it’s in error, you just send them a copy of your final divorce decree. In a month or two you’ll receive a letter stating that the matter’s been resolved.”

  “What do you mean ‘if it’s in error’?”

  Walt handed back the letter. “Well, you might just check with your attorney and be sure things got tied up nice and proper.”

  Noah blinked. “Of course they did.”

  “Well, sure. You just send a copy of that final decree, then, and that’ll be the end of it.”

  The end of it. The divorce had been uncontested, as simple as the act could be, he supposed. But there was nothing simple when it came to separating one flesh. If there was anything he’d learned in all this, that was it.

  The phone pealed again in the front office, shaking Noah from his stupor. “All right then. Much obliged, sir. I won’t take any more of your time.” He stood, his legs quaking beneath him.

  “Good luck, Noah. You say hello to your folks the next time you hear from them.”

  “Will do.”

  Noah’s heart raced as he strode down the hall, his mind spinning.

  The final decree. He had those papers. He’d signed them, and Josephine had sent him a copy. He remembered that much, even if those grief-laden months were as foggy as the valley on a warm spring morning. Facing Josephine across that old scarred table. Feeling like strangers, despite their nearly two-year marriage, her porcelain skin pale against her red lipstick. Working in a daze, forgetting to eat. Lying in his empty bed night after night, a concrete block on his chest.

  The divorce decree. He couldn’t say where it was just now, but he knew he had it.

  It was all just a mistake. But there was no sense going all the way back up the mountain when he could drive across town and make absolutely sure. He’d get a copy from the attorney and mail it while he was still in town. Get it behind him. Lickety-split.

  He turned left at the sidewalk and worked his way back to his Silverado. Traffic in town was heavy, everybody out running errands like he was. When he reached the Connelly Law Offices he turned into the space and headed inside.

  The jingling bell announced Noah’s arrival, and Joe Connelly came out of his office.

  “Noah, good to see you.”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d be open.”

  The men shook hands. Joe’s partner, Vernon, had represented both Noah and Josephine in the divorce. But a serious heart attack soon had the man retiring to Colorado where he could enjoy his son and grandkids.

  “A man’s got to be open on Saturdays anymore if he wants to stay in business. My secretary’s out sick with the flu. Have a seat. Can I get you a cup of coffee or a glass of tea?”

  “Coffee sounds great.”

  Joe poured a cup and handed it to him. “Come on back. I’m just working on a deposition, nothing that can’t wait.”

  As Noah followed, he drew a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. Was it just him, or did the building actually smell like a place where marriages came to die?

  He took a seat across from Joe’s desk—a direct contrast from Walt’s. Other than a tidy stack of papers and a canister of pens it was all glossy mahogany.

  Joe folded his hands on the desk. “What can I do for you, Noah?”

  For the second time this morning he withdrew the letter from his pocket and explained the situation.

  Joe listened intently, his hawk-like eyes fixed on Noah. “I see,” he said when Noah was finished. “Well, hopefully the IRS is mistaken—it wouldn’t be the first time. Do you remember signing the divorce decree?”

  “I do. I have a copy at home.” He probably hadn’t been as attentive as he should’ve been through the process. He had been reeling, and there was an intense desire to push all the details onto Josephine. She’d had it coming, after all.

  “A divorce is finalized when the decree is signed by both parties, then by the judge.”

  “The judge?” Noah palmed the side of his neck, feeling like an immense idiot. “I don’t remember seeing a judge’s signature, but I wasn’t really looking for it either.”

  “Well, the courthouse is closed, but we can certainly check our files.” Joe stood and walked over to a wall of filing cabinets. “I just can’t imagine Vernon letting this slip through the cracks.”

  “Things were winding down in the process when he had his heart attack.”

  Joe’s fingers walked along the top of the files. “He came back to the office to tie up loose ends before he moved. I suppose it’s possible the decree was overlooked.” Joe pulled a file and shut the drawer. “Let’s see what we have here.”

  Noah’s heart pummeled his ribs as Joe flipped through the papers. Please, God. He’d just come to town to run his errands. How could this be happening?

  Joe pulled a packet from the envelope. “Well, here’s a copy of the decree.”

  Noah’s lungs emptied. “Thank God.”

  “Well . . . hold your horses,” the lawyer said after he flipped to the last page. “It’s not been signed by the judge.”

  Noah sank into his seat.

  “There’s a note stating he gave a copy to Josephine on September 28. Once the judge signs, copies are sent to both parties, and we retain a copy for our records. Since there’s no such copy here, it was never submitted to the judge. You can check with the courthouse on Monday to be certain, but it looks as though your divorce was never finalized, Noah.”

  A nervous laugh slipped out. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  Joe set his hand on Noah’s shoulder. “I know it seems bad, but this is easily rectified. The divorce is probably still pending. It happens more often than you’d think. Just be glad neither of you has remarried. And yes, that actually happens.”

  Easily rectified.

  The words bounced through Noah’s head as he left the office. Easy for Joe to say. He hadn’t been unknowingly married for the past eighteen months to the woman who’d wrecked his world. He hadn’t been completely failed—twice now—by the woman he’d once loved more than life.

  Josephine. You’re still married to her. She’s still your wife.

  His traitorous heart gave an extra heavy thud, followed by a quick stutter. Longing surged, strong and unrelenting, making his chest tight, his breathing laborious.

  The innate reaction made his blood boil. That she still had that power over him . . . Would it never end? What kind of idiot was he?

  This was all her fault. She’d promised to handle this. And here they were. Eighteen months later and still married.

  He’d somehow kept a lid on his emotions through the endless process of their divorce. Had somehow bottled it up, clamped his teeth together, locked his lips. If she knew he was shattered it wasn’t because he’d fallen apart in front of her. If she knew about the anger churning inside him it wasn’t because he’d raged at her.

  But the emotions roiling now begged for release. And his feet, now striding purposely down the sidewalk, seemed helpless against the force. This time she was going to know exactly how he felt.

  Chapter 2

  Josephine Mitchell dragged a comb through Abel Crane’s newly trimmed hair. Her nimble fingers tugged here and there on the coarse strands, covering a cowlick, taming a wave. Abel was in his sixties with a thick head of gray hair that grew as fast as a June lawn.

  The Saturday-morning crowd filled Josephine’s Barbershop with the familiar sounds of chatter, the buzz of a razor, and the splash of water in the bowls. She caught the nutty scent of shaving cream and heard the scrape of a blade as her friend and fellow stylist, Callie, drew it deftly across her customer’s cheek.

  Josephine whipped the cape from Abel’s shoulders. “Ta-da! Handsome as ever, Mr. Crane.”

  “Much obliged, dear.”

  Abel lived in the foothills in a mobile home that had seen better days. Two years ago
, after a back injury at the gravel pit, he’d had to file for disability. His wife stayed home with their grown daughter, who had severe cerebral palsy and was confined to a wheelchair.

  The bell over the door tinkled behind the partition wall as Josephine replaced her tools. Her four stylists were busy with their own customers.

  “Be right with y’all,” she called.

  On Abel’s way to the lobby he fished his wallet from his pocket in a routine as familiar as the smell of shampoo.

  Josephine stopped him. “Now, sugar, you know your money’s no good here. Go buy that wife of yours a Danish, and tell her I said hey.”

  Abel’s round cheeks flushed. “Aw, you don’t have to do that, Josephine. Things is better now that our boy’s out on his own.”

  She gave his arm a light swat. “Now you get on, Abel Crane. I’ll see you next month. And tell Lizzie to stop in and see me.”

  “Will do,” he said, exiting the shop. “Much obliged, Josephine.”

  She turned, seeking the new arrival. “Just give me a second to sweep up and—”

  Her eyes connected with the waiting customer. But it wasn’t just any customer. It was Noah. Standing tall and confident in the corner of her little lobby, making her chest ache on sight. That’s how it was with Noah. He walked through her door, and just like that the past eighteen months fluttered away on a breeze.

  “Noah.” His name escaped on a breath.

  His hair was wind-tousled, his jaw all sharp angles and scruffy bristle. His amber-colored eyes snapped with fire. “We need to talk.”

  Her mouth opened, but her brain was a jumble. She couldn’t think why on earth he’d be here, why he’d be angry with her. She hadn’t laid eyes on him since the deposition.

  She crossed her arms, a flimsy barrier at best, and pasted a smile on her lips. “All right. What is it?”

  A shadow passed over his jaw. “What is it? I’ll tell you what it is, Josephine.”

  That stung. She didn’t expect to hear “baby girl” in that low gravelly voice, but Josephine? He’d called her Josie from the start.

  He leaned closer, and the full effect of his masculine smell made her woozy. “I need to see a copy of our divorce decree.”

  She blinked, her eyes fluttering around the lobby, grateful it was empty. Still, the partition wasn’t made of steel. A wave of heat flooded up her neck and into her cheeks.

  “Lower your voice, please.”

  “The decree, Josephine. Go get it.”

  “Fine. It’s upstairs. I’ll fetch it.” She hated the way her voice wobbled. She turned and headed toward the back of her shop. The smile fixed to her lips faltered when she caught sight of Noah in the mirror, following her.

  Well, this would surely be all over town by lunch. Josephine DuPree Mitchell entertaining her ex-husband in her apartment in broad daylight.

  She slipped through the back door into the short hall that led to her apartment stairs. When she reached the landing, she saw Noah lagging behind at the bottom of the stairs, thick biceps crossed over his chest.

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  He nailed her with stormy eyes that flickered with distrust. “I think I’ll just stay put.”

  The heat in her cheeks intensified as she made her way up the remaining stairs, knees wobbling like a three-legged table as her brain tried to digest the past surreal minute. Noah here. In her shop.

  She tried to forget the flinty look on his face. So different from the way he used to look at her, his lion eyes soft with adoration, his beautiful lips curved with contentment as they lay noodle-limbed in their bed. It had always been easiest to push back the fear in those satiated minutes before sleep dragged her under.

  Well, you have no one to blame but yourself, Josephine. The familiar stab of guilt twisted hard in her chest, and she let herself feel its impact for a long, self-indulgent moment.

  She couldn’t think on that now. Focus. Where had she put those papers?

  Her eyes scanned her cluttered apartment. She had no real file cabinet, but everything of importance wound up on her desk. She fluttered past the bills and dived to the bottom of the stack. Not there. She moved on.

  Her fingers trembled, clumsy. A pile of papers drifted to the hardwood floor, and she stooped down to gather them, coupons mostly and ads she hadn’t had time to sort through. She wavered as she stood back up. Where was it?

  She moved to the drawers, rifling through them. Mercy, what a mess. She needed to get organized. One never knew when one’s ex-husband would be waiting, arms crossed, temper flaring, at the bottom of one’s stairs.

  The clock was ticking, and the temper—she had a notion—was getting worse with each passing moment. She found the decree in the bottom of the last drawer and pulled it out with a heartfelt sigh.

  She took an extra moment to steady her breath, her eyes catching the mirror by the front door. The adrenaline flowing through her system had left her cheeks flushed and her forehead dewy. She blotted her skin with a tissue and resisted the urge to freshen her lipstick and fluff her hair.

  Funny how she still wanted to look nice for him. Some things never changed, she supposed.

  Clutching the packet, she left her apartment and took the stairs slowly, drawing deliberate deep breaths. Noah waited at the bottom, silent and dangerous—but only to her emotional well-being.

  She scrounged up a smile as she surrendered the envelope. “Here you are. I can make you a copy if you’ve lost yours.”

  He spared her a stony look as he pulled the document from the envelope.

  She shifted on unsteady legs. “I agreed to all your terms, Noah. I can’t imagine what’s got you all riled up.” Her laugh sounded nervous, choked off as it was by the tightness of her throat.

  He opened the stapled document and folded it back, then held it in front of her. “What’s this, Josephine? What do you see here?”

  She backed away until the print on the page sharpened. Their names, typed out nice and neat. Their signatures on the corresponding lines.

  And a line below that for the judge. An empty line.

  “So . . . I-I guess we forgot to get the judge’s signature?”

  “We didn’t forget. You did.”

  She took the packet from his steely grip. “The attorneys probably have the signed copy.”

  He gave a laugh, not the humorous kind. “Oh, I assure you, they don’t.” He took the papers and leaned in until she caught sight of the flecks of brown in his eyes that used to mesmerize her.

  “We’re not divorced, Josephine. The papers were never signed by the judge.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “What—what are you talking about?”

  “You didn’t finish the process! It never got finalized.” He leveled her with a look. “We’re still married, Josephine!”

  “That—that can’t be true,” she squeezed out. A niggling voice at the back of her mind gave a mocking laugh.

  “You said you’d take care of this. ‘I’ll handle everything, Noah. Don’t you worry about a single thing, Noah.’ And now look!” He turned around to face the wall. His shoulders rose and fell, and she’d swear the temperature had risen by ten degrees.

  “I’ll fix it. We’ll get it signed and turn it in.”

  He clasped his hands at the back of his neck, his biceps bulging. His shoulders sank, some of the fight leaking from his body. “It’s not that simple. The papers are dated. Joe doesn’t know if the divorce is still pending or if it was dismissed altogether.”

  “I’m so sorry . . . I don’t know how this happened. Vernon dropped off the papers, we signed, I made copies and sent one to you and one to him. I thought that was that.”

  “Well, it wasn’t.”

  “I’ll take care of it right away.”

  He turned around, his eyes cold as a mountain spring. “Oh no, you won’t. I’ll take care of it this time. I’ll call the courthouse on Monday and find out what we have to do to straighten this out.”

  “Of course. What
ever you want.”

  “I want this handled. And I want it done quickly.”

  He couldn’t wait to be rid of her. Just like last time. Her insides shriveled up tight as heat poured into her cheeks. “You have my complete cooperation.”

  And just as quickly as Noah had reentered her life, he was gone. Leaving her both stirred up and depleted all at the same time. Just like the first time he’d walked through her doors.

  Chapter 3

  Copper Creek, Georgia

  Three and a half years ago

  Josephine draped the new black cape around the young man’s shoulders. He looked to be barely legal, but she felt his eyes fixed on her in the mirror. She met his gaze as she settled her hands on shoulders that were still warm from the hot and muggy June day.

  “What can I do for you today, hon?”

  “Just a trim.” He had a nice smile going for him and puppy-dog eyes that probably made all the young girls swoon.

  The bell on the door jingled, and a blast of hot, humid air blew around the temporary partition. Another customer, she hoped. “Be with y’all shortly.”

  “Take your time,” a deep voice called.

  Josephine plugged in the clippers and went to work. Her first weeks had been slow, but business was picking up. Word of mouth, she reckoned. Men were better at that than most people supposed. She sure hadn’t had any extra money for advertising.

  Getting the space into working order had cost more than she’d figured, and she only had one bowl, one chair. Improvements on her dingy upstairs apartment would have to wait. It would take the rest of her inheritance to fix up the place, add more stations, more stylists. But it had to be done and soon. She could hardly make a living this way. The bid she’d received from the contractor who’d done the preliminary work was out of her ballpark.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?” the kid asked a few minutes into the trim, a flirtatious smile curving his lips.

  Her eyes flickered off his in the mirror. Word traveled fast in a small town. No one knew that better than she.

  She gave him a saucy smile. “Why you asking?”