I started toward the door.
“Jess.”
I turned.
He didn’t smile now. Instead, his expression was open. Every guard I tried to imagine on him was down.
“You’re doing good,” he said quietly. “Really good. And you don’t have to do all of it alone.”
Something fractured inside me. Something small and sharp and lonely that had been bracing for impact for years.
I forced a nod. Speech wasn’t an option.
“See you tomorrow,” he murmured.
My heart thudded in awful, wonderful recognition.
“Yeah. Tomorrow.”
I stepped into the cold air before I did something irreversible.
Like turn around and kiss him.
Because for the first time in a decade, I believed I might actually want to.
THIRTEEN
POWELL
I’d cleaned the place twice before she showed up, which was ridiculous because nothing about my apartment was ever dirty. Functional, maybe a little bare, but clean. Still, I’d found myself rearranging things that didn’t need rearranging—aligning the spice jars, wiping down the counters until they squeaked, standing in front of the sink debating whether a man ironing a hand towel constituted some kind of personal crisis. Probably.
The second I heard her car door outside, every bit of that pointless busywork seemed suddenly, painfully obvious. I dropped the towel like it was evidence of a felony and answered the door before she knocked.
She was standing there with her knuckles half-raised, her expression already halfway to a frown, like she wasn’t sure what she’d expected to find but it probably wasn’t me opening the door early. Her gaze flicked down to the welcome mat—the corner chewed to hell. “What happened to your mat?”
I followed her line of sight and swallowed a groan. “Esmerelda. She briefly lived here.”
She stared at me before glancing pointedly down at the mat, her expression shifting through disbelief, amusement,and something dangerously close to fondness. “You brought a donkey home with you.”
“For a couple days,” I said. “Temporary housing situation.”
“You fostered a donkey.”
“She’s very expressive.”
Jess opened her mouth like she had a dozen follow-up questions, then seemed to think better of it. Her lips pressed together on whatever comment she was about to make. She brushed past me into the apartment, the faint scent of coffee and something sweet trailing behind her, and for one disorienting second all the air in the house was too warm.
“Nice place.” From her, that was practically a five-star rave.
“Functional.” I tried not to look like a man noticing the way sunlight hit the strands of her hair or how her sweater slouched at one shoulder in a way that made my pulse jump.
She wandered toward the kitchen, drawn by the scents, and when she leaned in over the island, inhaling deeply, something in my chest loosened.
“Is that food?” she asked, like if I said no she might commit a crime.
“Last time I checked.”
“It smells… really good.” Her tone was almost offended by that fact.
