I blink in surprise when I see it’s Sophie.
“Hey, kiddo. Everything okay?”
Her voice comes bright through the line. “Yeah! Dad’s making pasta for dinner, and I told him we should invite you.”
I smile before I can stop it. “You did, huh?”
“He said you probably like pasta too. Everyone likes pasta.”
“Fair point,” I say, laughing softly. “That’s hard to argue with.”
There’s a shuffle on her end, the sound of a pot clanging and Declan saying something in the background. Sophie lowers her voice like she’s sharing a secret. “He’s actually a really good cook when he tries. You should come over. Please?”
I bite back a smile, my heart doing something inconvenient in my chest. I can practically hear her grinning on the other end, and behind her, Declan’s voice—low, amused—“Don’t pressure her, Sophie.”
“No pressure,” she parrots, still giggling. “But you should come.”
I hesitate, heart thudding. I know the optics. I know the lines we’re not supposed to cross. But the combination of her enthusiasm and that small, hopeful pause on the other end is impossible to resist.
I exhale slowly. “Alright. But only if I can bring dessert.”
“Deal!” she says instantly. “See you at six!”
When the call ends, I’m still smiling, even as my pulse stays uneven.
I stare at the screen for a second, then thumb over to Kristy.
Me:I may have just agreed to pasta at his house. With Sophie.
Kristy:That’s not pasta, that’s escalation.
Me:She invited me.
Kristy:Well, how could you say no to his daughter? That’s basically illegal.
I laugh and then another text from her pops up:
Bring dessert. And behave.
I continue laughing, tension easing.
As I decide what to bake, a familiar twist of nerves settles low in my stomach.
I’m crossing another invisible line tonight.
And I’m not sure I want to find my way back.
Declan’s front porch light is already on when I pull into the driveway, balancing the dish of brownies in one hand. My pulse hasn’t slowed since I turned onto his street.
Before I can knock, the door opens. Declan fills the doorway—barefoot, sleeves rolled, a dishtowel tossed over his shoulder. The scent of garlic and tomato drifts out behind him.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and easy. “Come in before Sophie strains her neck checking the window again.”
I laugh, stepping inside. “Tell her she doesn’t need to keep watch. I brought dessert.”
“That’ll win you points,” he says, a hint of a grin touching his mouth as he closes the door behind me.
Sophie appears a second later, hair in a messy braid, cheeks pink. “You came!”
