“Brodie didn’t know I was on the team,” Zoey said, pulling out a chair at the table. “Yum!” she grinned, taking the slice that Maeve had cut her.
“She’s good,” Brodie said, leaning against the doorway, arms folded.
“Mom’s good, too,” Zoey’s voice was mumbled from the pie she’d crammed in her mouth.
“I was okay at school.” Maeve tucked her hair behind her ear, far too aware of Brodie in her house—all sparkly and clean and smelling of warm sugar. It was safer before, when she was wary of him. “And I do bake, by the way. Sometimes,” she added, wishing immediately that she hadn’t.
“I didn’t say you didn’t.” Was that a hidden grin? Could he tell she was awkward? Why was she suddenly awkward around him?
It felt like everything had changed. Now that the truth of Zoey’s parentage was out in the open, it felt different from before. There was no covert truth to edge around, no accusatory whisperings. The conversation was no longer all explanations and a desire to be understood. This was it—he was the missing father—it was happening. He and Zoey could build their own relationship, he didn’t even have to be in the house. But here he was. All six foot of him, with his dimples and his shaggy blond hair and his surfer tan. She fumbled the pie as she plated it up. “You want some or have you overdosed on sugar already at the diner?”
Brodie took the plate from her, sauntering to the table with his broken, crumbling slice. “Oh, I’ll most definitely have some pie. I wouldn’t pass up such a rare treat.”
Maeve rolled her eyes, had never had more cause to do so than with this man.
Was he teasing her?She couldn’t read any signals, she was too overly aware of him in her house, sitting at her table. She thought about how she’d wanted to be with them playing basketball and having shakes. Wanted to be part of the giggling and the easy asides.
Her and all the other women in the world.
She took in a calming breath.He’s the father of your kid. That’s it.
Suddenly, as if her mind had been suppressing it until the issue was resolved, the image of her night with him flashed into her mind. She remembered, as she sat across from him, exactly what the touch of his lips felt like, his hand tracing down her arm to lace his fingers with hers and lift them above her head. She remembered the weight of his body. The smell of his skin. The crease of his smiling eyes when he was mere inches away from hers.
“This is great pie,” he said, mouth full.
“Yeah, Mom, you’re good at this.”
For a second, Maeve forgot what they were talking about.
Brodie said, “I think your mom’s good at everything.”
“Me, too.”
She couldn’t bear it. Her palms were clammy. She didn’t want to sit, she didn’t want to stand. She could just feel the thrum through her body of having Brodie wrap his arms tight around her waist and kiss her with a careless laugh on his lips.
“Coffee?” she asked.
Zoey scraped her chair back. “Can I go and watch TV?”
Maeve nodded.
Brodie twisted round in his seat. He looked too big for the kitchen. She imagined her grandma making eyes at her behind his back, giving her a cheeky thumbs-up. Grandma would have loved Brodie with all his slick charm and compliments.
“Have I done something?” he asked, elbow on the table, chin propped on his fist as he studied her. “I feel like I’m making you nervous.”
Maeve shook her head, nonplussed. “No not at all.”
Brodie narrowed his eyes like he could tell she was lying. Before he could say anything, she said, “What milkshake did you have?”
His lip quirked as if he hadn’t expected the question from her. “Same as always. The Mudslide—triple chocolate.”
She swallowed. She’d guessed correctly.
“What’s your favorite?” he asked.
“Strawberry Serenade.”
“Willow’s favorite, too,” he said, a little smile on his lips. Had he been guessing hers? No, of course not, because he wasn’t behaving like a pathetic teenager.
