I studied his face—the careful hope in his eyes, the slight tension in his jaw. There was something steadying about his presence that made the constant ache in my chest feel slightly less overwhelming.
“Saturday,” I said finally. “That would be nice.”
His smile was warm, genuine, transforming his entire face. “Shall I pick you up? Around seven?”
I nodded, already feeling the guilt creeping in. What would people think? What would my kids think? Was I betraying Marco’s memory by having dinner with another man, less than four months after his death?
“Theresa.” Patrick’s voice pulled me from my spiral. His expression had softened, understanding written in every line. “We’re both navigating waters we’ve never sailed before. There’s no map for this, no rulebook. We’ll simply take it one step at a time, aye?”
“One step at a time,” I repeated, grateful for his understanding.
We stood, and Patrick helped me with my blazer—a gentleman’s gesture that felt comforting. As we walked to the door, his hand rested briefly on the small of my back, a touch so light I might have imagined it.
Outside, the afternoon sun was bright after the café’s dimmer interior. We paused on the sidewalk, neither quite ready to part ways.
“Thank you,” I said again. “For everything. The business connection, the understanding, the—” I gestured vaguely between us, unable to name what this was.
“No thanks needed.” His accent wrapped around the words, making them feel like more than simple courtesy. “I’ll see you Saturday, then.”
“Saturday,” I confirmed.
He held my gaze for a moment longer, then turned and walked to his car—an older Land Rover that somehow suited him perfectly. I watched him drive away, my pulse still catching from the simple memory of his touch.
My wedding ring caught the sunlight, and guilt twisted sharp in my chest.
But underneath the guilt was something else. Something fragile and new.
Hope.
Chapter
Ten
THERESA
Saturday morning,and I was humming.
I didn’t even realize it until Paris looked up from her cereal with those all-seeing five-year-old eyes and announced, “Mom, you’re doing that thing.”
I paused, coffee cup halfway to my lips. “What thing?”
“The humming thing. The smiley thing.” She tilted her head, studying me like I was an interesting bug. “You never do that anymore.”
The kitchen went silent. Rome stopped mid-chew, a spoonful of cereal suspended in front of his mouth. Austin’s head came up from his book—some dense thing about rockets that was way above second-grade level. Even Aspen paused her drawing.
Michael and Shelly exchanged a glance across the table. Blaze and Fury, mercifully oblivious to the sudden tension, kept eating.
“I—” My mind went completely blank. “I was just thinking about work. Tuesday’s board meeting went well.”
Paris narrowed her eyes. “You don’t smile about work.”
“Sure I do.”
“No, you don’t. You get that worried face.” She scrunched up her features in an exaggerated impression of concentration. “This is different. This is the face you made when Dad would call to say he was coming home early.”
Rome’s spoon clattered into his bowl. “Are you talking to Dad? Is he calling from heaven?”
“No, sweetheart. That’s not?—”
