Freya smiled at me then, and her eyes moistened. It was real emotion, real gratitude; she couldn’t fake that. If she’d been that good an actress, she’d have done more than a few commercials and a corny Christmas movie. This was authentic.

“Oh, Low . . . ,” she said, stepping toward me, “you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.” And then she kissed me.

Freya had stood on tiptoes and pecked my cheek on numerous occasions. But this kiss was different. It was on the lips. And while she didn’t quite slip me the tongue, she lingered there, her lips pressed to mine, longer than a friend would. It awakened something inside of me, a feeling that started at my knees, traveled up my inner thighs, and into my groin. It was desire; it was lust. I had never felt so alive.

I had shared my feelings with Freya, and she had reciprocated them. With a warm, moist, lingering kiss. That kiss . . . that kiss would stay with me, haunt me, and, eventually, taunt me.

It would change everything.

Chapter 39

39

jamie

As the one-month anniversary of our “break” approached, I pondered the content of my text to Freya. Should I lead with the business angle? Tell her that I was eager to stock more of her pottery for the summer season? It would make me sound less pathetic and emotionally needy. And Freya would be flattered that her pieces were so popular. But it might seem cold and aloof after the heated conversation we’d had. I didn’t want her to think all I cared about was our professional relationship, because that was a lie. Eventually, I decided to be honest. Because I could live without Freya’s pottery but not without her friendship.

Precisely one month after she’d proclaimed us “on a break,” I reached out.

Hey. Been thinking about you and wondering how you’re doing. Coffee soon?

My iPhone indicated that she had read the message, but she did not respond.

She was in the middle of something, I told myself. Maybe she was in the studio, working on new pieces for my summer stock. Or she was embroiled in one of her Instagram photo shoots. Or about to have a bath. Or a nap. Or a massage . . . She would answer me soon, I told myself. Freya had to be missing me, too.

But she had still not responded by the end of the day. I locked up the shop, went home, and poured myself a glass of wine. Brian was bustling around the kitchen, making a stir-fry. He was chatty and chipper, talking about the “breakthrough” he and his editor had made on the climax of his novel. I pretended to listen, nodding along, my mind entrenched on my precarious friendship.

“Why do you keep looking at your phone?” my husband asked.