Bad girl, Jordan.
So I have a crush. Whatever. It’s never going to happen. He has a child. I don’t need to add a tiny, impressionable person to the mix who may struggle to understand why her dad’s new friend suddenly isn’t around anymore.
Mentally, I draw a line through Tate Ward’s name. It’ll run its course and go away.
He gives me a funny smile, standing with the cat tucked under his arm. There’s a strangely anxious energy about him.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He runs a hand through his hair, grimacing. “I’m in a jam. Bea’s nanny has the flu and can’t make it tonight.”
“What’s tonight?” No game. No meeting in my calendar. No event or charity dinner.
“I have a—thing. I can’t miss it. Holly and Jeff are out of town.”
Athing. For someone so straightforward and honest, it’s a weirdly vague description.
Oh.Oh. My stomach crumples like a pop can and lands on the ground with an emptyclink,somewhere near my feet.
The casual but stylish boots, the aftershave, therolled-up sleeves.
He’s going on a date.
“Right.” I’m nodding. If I let on that I’m feeling any emotion about this, I’ll evaporate into a million pieces, so I hold my expression neutral. Force a shrug. Look away.
“Are you free?” A furrow forms between his dark brows.
“Free?”
“To watch Bea. I’m really sorry, Jordan, I know it’s your night off and you’re probably going out?—”
“I’m not. Busy. Or going out.” Really, Jordan? Are we doing this? “I can watch her.”
“Really?” His eyebrows go up.
“I mean...” I can feel my uneasy expression. “Are you sure you wantmeto watch Bea? Georgia could probably do it if she doesn’t have soccer.”
Bea would love Georgia’s bunnies. And Georgia’s personality. She’s the kind of person everyone likes.
He shakes his head, a funny smile like I’m saying something odd. “If you’re free and able to, I would be eternally grateful. I won’t be home late.”
“It’s fine if you are.” Not that I care.
He tilts his head at the house. “Do you want to...”
“Oh. Now?”
“Yeah.” He makes an apologetic face. “Now. Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I slip my shoes on and close the door behind me, following him up to the house.
The house that I’m definitely going inside. Right now. Okay. Idon’t know why it’s such a big deal. I’m babysitting, for god’s sake, but the idea of spending time inside Tate’s home is just, I don’t know. Intimate. Personal. It’s a barrier I’ve been trying to hold.
He leads me inside, the cat at our feet, and like I suspected from the glimpses I’ve caught through the windows, his home is beautiful. Modern, but comfortable. Spacious, but the furniture and layout are done in a way that make it feel cozy, like a home. Like real people live here. There are photos everywhere, of Bea, Tate, and a man and woman. The woman is curvy and looks a little like Bea. That must be Holly. Of Tate and a guy who looks like him. Maybe a bit younger.
“That’s Holly and Jeff,” Tate says. “And that’s my brother, Noah.”
Beside us, the cat leaps onto a chair.
