I narrowed my eyes. “You know how to braid hair?”
“She’s had hair since she was a baby. Of course I know how to take care of it.”
“Of course you do.” My mind reeled. I solved problems every day, but Cole was incomprehensible. He knew how to braid hair, but he didn’t have food in his cabinets. He was a ruthless competitor, yet he had held my hand over his thudding heart like he cared about me.
“Make yourself comfortable on the couch.” He handed me my refilled glass. “I’ll put Cait to bed, then we’ll get back to work.”
Right. Work.I’d almost forgotten that’s what we were here for. I nodded, then took a super-sized gulp of my wine that puffed out my cheeks and burned down my throat.
29
I’M NOT INTO SAVING PUPPIES
Favorite scent?
Cole:Chamomile. I think that’s what Bridget’s hair smells like.
Bridget:Oh. Um. I don’t think I can answer that question right now.
COLE
Istill had Bridget’s phone. Okay, I might have been lowkey holding it hostage so she wouldn’t leave. After I’d put Caitlyn’s hair into a French braid, I continued reading her the book Bridget had pulled up for us. It was about a young girl fighting her parents and the school administration over a book ban. It wasn’t something I’d have normally picked up, but Caitlyn loved the plucky main character and the humorous tone—until she fell asleep within five minutes. It was really too bad because I’d become invested in the story and wanted to read the part where the girl and her friends got caught with their secret library of banned books by the evil principal.
I tucked the covers under Caitlyn’s chin, triple-checked that her chest was still rising and falling, and flicked off the light. After closing the door silently behind me, I rushed down the hall to the living room, hoping Bridget hadn’t used her laptop to call a car and leave.
She huddled under my coat on the sofa, staring at her laptop screen like it held the secrets of the universe. Her skin glowed blue in the light from the screen, and she looked as tired as I felt. I wanted to tuck her into bed and curl around her to ensure she got the sleep she needed.
I didn’t need sleep. All I needed was her soft body in my arms and the grassy scent of her hair tickling my nose as I breathed her in.
No.
Closing my eyes, I pinched the bridge of my nose to bring myself back to reality. She’d said she didn’t want that. She was here to work, not to be my emotional support human.
“You’re still here,” I said lightly. “I gave you fifty-fifty odds of running away.”
“Running away?” She looked up from the screen. “Why would I do that?”
“I’d have run away.” I flopped onto the sofa and leaned my head back. “Zara’s right. I’m terrible at parenting.”
“You’re wrong.” My heart leaped. Until she said, “And also not wrong.”
“Ouch.” When I looked at her, she had that sanctimonious look on her face, the one she used to wear all the time around me. “You’re not supposed to agree with me.”
She closed her laptop and set it aside. “I know you can be great at it. You learned how to braid curly hair, which is next-level. But you’re…lacking in other areas. Like, you need to keep some damn food and basic medical supplies in your house.”
“Thanks for the feedback,” I said automatically. “How did you manage to magic up dinner out of my bachelor kitchen?”
“Lots of practice making something from almost nothing.” She flashed me a grim smile. “Growing up, sometimes there wasn’t enough for the seven of us. My dad lost his job and didn’t find work for a while.”
“In 2008?” I asked. Lots of my friends’ parents struggled then.
She laughed. “You sweet summer child. In 2008, I was already on my own. No, this was in the nineties. It wasn’t a recession, just his company downsizing. The workforce was changing, becoming more digital, and he wasn’t prepared. I didn’t understand that then. All I knew was that we had to shop at the church’s food pantry, and I didn’t want anyone at school to know I was getting free lunches. At first, I skipped them. Then I figured out I couldn’t keep up my A average when I was hungry. You bet I ate those free lunches after that. But this is more than you wanted to know.”
I took her hand. “No, it’s not. I want to know.”
Her smile was wry. “Anyway, pasta is cheap and goes a long way. With a little margarine, or butter when it was on sale, and whatever vegetables, canned or otherwise, we could get with food stamps, it tasted pretty good. Though I can’t say I ever ate buttered camp—campa?—”
“Campanelle. It was delicious,” I said.
