Tossing a pair of sweatpants at Fallon, I quietly turn the lock on the doorknob and peek down the hallway. Still no sounds coming from the kitchen or from upstairs, thank god. I refuse to do a walk of shame in my own home in front of my kids.
“I’m going to grab some shorts,” I tell Fallon and tiptoe out—then scream bloody murder when Charlotte pops out of nowhere.
“Mom?”
“Don’t do that!”
But she’s not looking at me. Her gaze, and her blinding smile, are locked on the bare-chested man standing directly behind me. “Morning, Uncle Fallon.”
“Morning, Squirt.”
Kill me now.
“What’s going on? Who yelled?” Christopher shouts from upstairs, his running footsteps sounding like cannon fire hitting the ceiling.
I dash into my bedroom, feeling zero guilt about leaving Fallon out there on his own, and slam the door closed.
“Well, that wasn’t embarrassing at all,” I groan out loud.
I had wanted to sit the kids down and talk to them. Have an open conversation about Fallon and me and the likelihood of him sleeping over some nights. Make sure they were okay with it. Answer any questions they had. All of that just flew out the damn window.
Hurrying to put on a pair of shorts, I disconnect my phone from its charger and see there’s a new text message from Daniel. He and Drew are flying back from Singapore tomorrow. I’ve barely had a chance to talk to them since I returned from Italy.
Me: Me and the kids have missed you! Can’t wait for you and Drew to be home. Sunday cookout at the house to welcome you back.
And tell them about Fallon. And Jayson. Maybe a cookout isn’t such a great idea.
When my phone rings, I assume it’s Daniel and answer it before checking the caller ID.
“Hey! I just texted you.”
“You did?” Julien says. “I didn’t get anything.”
I sit down on the corner of the bed. “Not you. Daniel. I thought you were him. What’s up?”
I was going to call him this morning about Jayson being back. Maybe he saw him, too, and had the same inclination.
“Just checking in since you didn’t show up this morning for our run.”
Remembering to set my alarm for our morning run was the furthest thing from my mind last night.
I flop back onto the bedspread and gaze up at the ceiling fan. “I’m so sorry. I hope you and Elijah didn’t wait around for me.”
“I thought, maybe, you were mad at me…you know, about the other day.”
He must be outside on the back deck. I can hear Elijah in the background and the sharp, happy yips of their two-year-old golden retriever, Buddy.
“What? No.”
He sighs in relief. “I didn’t mean to pressure you into doing something you’re not ready for.”
“You didn’t.”
A beat of silence, then, “So…”
He’s fishing, but I’m not going to make it easy for him. “So…”
“Did you?”
