“Pete, you need to leave. Now.” Twirling on my heels, I hurry to the front door, wanting to get as far away from him as possible.
We’ve done this dance way too many times for my liking. No movement of retreat sounds from behind me, but I’m not scared of Pete. He won’t hurt me, at least not physically. I only wish he’d leave.
If I weren’t focused on getting back to Paige, I’d laugh at Pete being ticked about Sam, like he has a right to give a damn. He never gave a rat’s ass when we were married.
“Liv,” he says, and I halt in my tracks, refusing to face him. “What about Paige?”
I turn around. Pete is a caring and loving parent, and his concern for his children is genuine.
“I’ll talk to her.” It’s all I have, all I can do, but it’s not much.
Pete knows what Paigeand I have been going through, and he’s been nothing but supportive. Other men may have used this rough patch with Paige to drive a bigger wedge between us or to tear me down, but he’s been my biggest advocate. I’m grateful for that.
He nods, eyes weary. “That’s all I ask.”
With his hands shoved deep in his pockets, he turns and walks away. And for the first time in a long while, I don’t watch him go.
16
SAM
“Hey, I like it.” Paige laughs, popping another artichoke in her mouth.
Olivia silently observes us from the kitchen doorway, pleasantly amazed, a small smile on her face.
“Hey, what are you guys doing?” She saunters into the room to stand beside Paige and playfully winks at her.Paige smiles, continuing to chop the black olives.
“We’re preparing the toppings for the pizza.” I nod toward a small cutting board and a bulb of garlic. “Please chop this? Or we could pop them in the oven whole and add them after.”
“Pizza?” She smiles. “You’re making crust?”
“Mom.” Paige rolls her eyes.“We have Sam. He’s a chef.” She tosses her hands up, exasperation written all over her face.
Olivia’s eyes widen, searching my face for confirmation. Nodding, my gaze dips to the mound of dough I’m kneading on the flour-covered surface.
While Olivia was outside with her ex, I ventured to Paige’s room and coaxed her out of seclusion and her indignant mood. Surprisingly, it wasn’t hard to do. I had been prepared to explain and answer her questions if she asked. She didn’t.
Instead, she openly talked about my show and how she likes to cook with her mom. That’s how I got the idea, and we headed downstairs to start dinner.
Fortunately, Paige guided me through the kitchen supplies and our food options. Olivia’s fridge is fully stocked and I quickly settled on the menu. Just then, the front door slams, followed by a murmured curse.
“Drew?” Olivia calls.
Her son steps into the kitchen, scanning the domestic scene before him. Even barely knowing him, I can tell he’s pissed—knitted brow, tight lips, and one hand gripping his hair are easy to spot.
Olivia puts the knife aside. “Hey, is everything okay?”
His voice cracks through the air like a whip. “Why didn’t you tell me Dad would be here?”
Oh, no. Drew must have run into his father after Olivia came in.
Olivia posture remains calm for the most part, but there is an unmistakeable edge to her voice. “He dropped Paige off. She wanted to see you.”
“Next time, give me a heads-up so I can make sure I’m not here.”
“He’s your father.” Her voice is even, quiet, though her gaze is layered with concern and disappointment.
Paige abandons grating the cheese, now fully tuned-in to the charged silence crackling across the kitchen.
