“I’ll supervise.”
“Fine. But I’m picking the music.”
He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat in it. Just this quiet, worn-in kind of affection that feels too big for the space between us.
We get home, unload the groceries, and settle into the rhythm we’ve started to build. He texts with Jamie, and we have the Knights’ game on low in the living room, occasionally checking the scores or the highlights, but I get the impression it’s so he can talk about it with Jamie more than anything.
I keep an ear out for how Dom—the rookie for the Knights—is faring. It’s still early season for the pro teams, but Dom’s been running hot and cold, oscillating between brilliant and someone Jamie’s team would put second line.
I turn my attention back to dinner, and mix shrimp in some sort of hot honey high-protein marinade Thatcher blended—literally blended in his own blender—while he chops up cucumber for our rice bowls.
And then . . . there’s a knock at the door.
The knock is light. Breezy.
Thatcher stiffens before he even moves. That tells me enough. The fact that he hesitates in moving toward the hallway tells me even more.
Thatch wipes his hands on the way to open the door, and I peek around the stairs to get a glimpse. There she is—Liz. Or so I’m assuming by how all the parts of Jamie that don’t match with Thatcher line up with the woman at the door. She’s all high-end loungewear and beachy hair, sunglasses pushed up like a crown, boutique bag dangling from her wrist like a statement piece. I’m instantly reminded of the NAPH WAGs.
“Gabe!” She beams. “Surprise!”
Her voice has the pitch of someone playing a part they just decided on this morning.
“I figured it was time I came to be mom for a bit,” she says, stepping forward without waiting for permission. “I’m staying at the Inn. Just for a while.”
Thatcher doesn’t move aside. Doesn’t offer a smile. Doesn’t even blink.
“That’s . . . unexpected,” he says carefully.
“Well, let me tell you all about it. Do you have a drink? I’d kill for a bottle of water.” She rounds the corner about the same time I pick my knife back up.
Then she sees me.
Her smile stutters for half a second. “Oh. I didn’t realize you had company, Thatchy.”
Thatchy? Please.
I nod once. “Afternoon. Roe Monroe.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Liz, of course,” she says uncertainly, but she recalibrates fast, turning her gaze back to Thatcher. “Anyway, I brought Jamie something. Just a little something. It’s vintage—well, faux vintage, but still cute.”
She sets the bag on the table with the flourish of someone placing a prop.
Thatcher hasn’t moved closer to her. His body language hasn’t shifted. If anything, he looks more like a man holding steady against a tide he already knows how to outwait.
I glance between them and feel something press against my ribs from the inside. The urge to walk over and stake my claim is large, and I curse myself for not leaving a visible hickey on his neck when I could. I won’t be missing that opportunity a second time.
“Is Jamie not here?”
“He’s out with a friend.”
“Oh,” she says. And am I wrong in thinking that she looks a bit relieved but also sort of pissed? Like his absence has messed with her big arrival or something.
“You said something about staying a while?” Thatcher prods as he drifts closer to where I’m standing. His proximity eases the jealous monster beneath my skin. His eyes briefly meet mine and we share a look before he squeezes my hip and moves to get her the water she asked for.
“Well, yes,” she says with a smile, taking a drink of the water and grabbing a stool from the island to land on. “I’ve been traveling and there was the most interesting woman next to me on the plane a few weeks ago who wouldn’t stop talking about her kids, and I just had this amazing thought . . . Wow. That’s missing in my life. Like, I’m a mom, you know? And Iwantthat inspirational journey. It’s so important to me.”
Thatcher doesn’t move a muscle and I choke a laugh with a drink of water.
