Solo meant streamlined. Efficient. Clean.
At least, that’s what I used to tell myself.
Now?
I guess I’m just better at managing the chaos than being part of it.
My pen stilled against the screen.
What it would feel like to be someone’s favorite person. What would it feel like to know that he couldn’t think straight when I walked into a room? Who knew my laugh by heart? Whose world shrank when I smiled?
I blinked fast. Took a sip of coffee that had gone lukewarm and tapped the edge of the tablet like I was refreshing it.
Then stood. Shoulders straight. Jeans pressed.
Time for errands.
"Okay," I muttered. "Enough."
It sounded practical.
But it felt like a retreat.
The apartment door clicked shut behind me, and I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror, grocery bag in one hand, shoulders a little too straight. I had barely unloaded the bags when I heard the elevator ding again.
I glanced at the clock.
Right on cue.
I wiped my hands on a dishtowel and ran one finger along the edge of a throw pillow. Flattened a crease. Then stepped back.
"He’s going to say I overdid it," I muttered. And fluffed the pillow one more time anyway.
The door swung open, and Nolan filled the frame with his ex-player swagger. Tall, broad-shouldered, coach mode, softened by dad mode.
He let out a low whistle. "Wow. You made this place feel like home."
"You’re welcome," I said dryly, already turning toward the kitchen. If I stood still, he might hear the emotion in my voice.
He followed, glancing around, while I narrated like a home show host.
"Pantry’s alphabetized. The kids’ room has blackout curtains and identical stuffed animals to prevent bedtime negotiations. The bathroom got reorganized for tiny hands. And yes, before you ask, I labeled everything."
"Help us all," Nolan muttered. But he was smiling.
We reached his office. On the credenza, a framed clipping waited for a frame:Bennett Named Head Coach. He paused. Silence settled as he stepped to the desk.
Photos lined the wall in a tight, deliberate grid. One of him, lifting the Stanley Cup, pre-coaching days. Another with his arm raised on the bench, shouting mid-play.
A third, Brooke and the girls on a beach, hair wind-blown and sunlit. In the corner, a laminated newspaper clipping with the headline:Bennett Leads Chestnut Ridge to First Conference Title in a Decade.
He pointed at one. "Can’t believe you found this one. That game in Calgary? You nearly froze to death in the stands."
I smirked. "And I still say the jacket was fashion over function."
I nodded toward an empty frame slot. "Left space for the coaching Cup photo. You know, for when you finally win it."
He groaned like I’d punched him. "Claire, come on. You know I’m superstitious."
