None of his silverware matched. He didn’t even remember where he got it. He left everything they’d had in the home he’d shared with Mia. When he rebuilt his life after Mia, he’d picked up whatever to make-do.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t cook. He didn’t hang out at his place unless it was to watch TV, and all he needed was beer and chips to do that.

He had his Harley.

He had his boat.

He had his truck and a life with no strings, so if he wanted out, a break to take off, to live life, he did it.

And came home feeling empty.

Hell, he was already empty.

The fuck of it was, he had no clue if it was better to stay empty or get filled up, get used to that feeling and endure losing it. Losing it to a fight that leads to a breakup. To stupid shit that leads to a breakup. To something tragic that leads to heartbreak…and more empty.

He knew the answer to that getting shot of Mia.

It felt worse being empty. Having no one to be with. No one to share with.

Nothing to live for.

Still, the thought of the loss paralyzed him because he’d felt it before.

He put these thoughts aside, nabbed a knife, and was about to turn to the fridge to get the cream cheese when he saw Cher’s hand setting it on the counter by the plate.

Then she fit her front to his back, wrapped her arms around his stomach, and pressed her cheek to his lat.

She said nothing.

She just held on.

He opened the cream cheese, dug in with the knife, and started spreading.

“This place sucks,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” she whispered, holding on.

“A mortgage might suck more,” he told her.

“Don’t know, never had one,” she replied and pressed closer, held on tighter. “Just know you’re too good of a guy and you work too hard to live in a place like this. You deserve more, Merry. You deserve to go home to a place that kicks ass. That’s all I know. It might not be that house. It might be another condo but a better one. It might be somewhere else. It’s just not here.”

He made the decision to lighten the mood, stopped smearing, put the knife on the plate, and turned in her arms.

He took her in his.

“I’m gettin’ from this you don’t like my pad,” he teased.

She grinned up at him, rolled up on her toes, and slid her arms from around him to his front, gliding them up his chest to hold on to his shoulders as she leaned her weight into him and he leaned his to the counter.

But even through her grin, her eyes were serious.

So were her words.

“You deserve better.”

Her words aimed true, like an antidote to fight the poison congealing in his gut.

It was fast-acting.

Instant.

And losing that sick just because she gave him three words, Garrett decided the bagels could wait.