“That’s because we’re an awesome repair team.” I hold up my hand for a high five that she enthusiastically returns.
“Josh,” Penny says, eyes bright, “do you want to have dinner at our house?”
Lily startles beside me. “Penny, I’m not even sure what we have in the fridge.”
“How about I cook for the two of you instead?” I cut in before she can say a hard no. “I went grocery shopping today and have a full fridge.”
Penny turns pleading eyes to her mother. “Can we, Mom? Please? Pretty please?”
I can’t help myself; I mimic Penny’s expression, scrunching my face into what I hope is an adorable, impossible-to-resist puppy dog look. “Yeah, Lily, pretty please?”
It’s just dinner. But as I wait for her answer, my heart pounds as if I’d asked her to marry me.
With them here, this place feels a lot less like a show apartment and more like home. And I’m not ready to give up that feeling. Conflict plays across Lily’s face—the automatic retreat warring with the side of her that wants to say yes. I know what I’m doing isn’t fair. She’s exhausted from her shift, probably had a plan for a quiet evening at home, and I’m ganging up on her with her daughter. I’m pushing, and I know it.
But I’ve seen her light up when she lets herself relax, the way she came alive at the pier, how she laughed during our hike. I’ve also seen the shadows that chase her, how she pulls back every time we get too comfortable. She’s spent so long being careful, being alone, that she’s forgotten what it feels like to just… be.
Maybe I’m reading this all wrong and projecting what I want onto what I tell myself she needs. But she showed up at my door tonight instead of texting and settled into my patio chair like she belonged in my home. That wasn’t nothing. That was her choosing to be here, even if she won’t admit it yet.
So yeah, I’m pushing. Gently. Because I can see the part of her that wants to be pushed, wants permission to take up space in someone else’s life again. And if I’m wrong? She’ll tell me no, and I’ll respect it. But I don’t think I’m wrong.
16
LILY
Say no, say no, say no.
Dinner should be harmless—just a neighborly thing to do—but with him, it feels anything but innocent. He’s Josh: kind, available, too attractive for my sanity, and still a firefighter. We agreed on a friendship, but his eyes keep flirting, and I’m not sure I’m not flirting back. And my daughter is already halfway attached, because apparently, it’s in the Finnigan women’s DNA to gravitate toward good men. I get it; Penny is starved for a father figure, and the way she latched onto Dorian proved it, same as she’s doing with Josh now. I shouldn’t let Josh slip into that role and have another dozen reasons to shut this down.
Part of me wants to flee, to grab Penny and retreat to the safety of our apartment where feelings are contained in clearly labeled compartments. But the weight of their twin puppy dog expressions is unbearable. I stare back and forth between Penny’s hopeful face and Josh’s ridiculous imitation, complete with a trembling bottom lip, and I can’t bring myself to say no.
“Fine,” I cave. “But I’m warning you, she’ll eat you out of house and home. Ballet makes her ravenous.”
Josh’s face breaks into a grin that hits me like a sugar rush. “Challenge accepted.”
Penny throws her arms around me and asks if she can keep riding her bike while Josh cooks. I nod, and my daughter takes off, leaving me alone with Josh as we move to the kitchen.
He picks up a half-empty beer bottle—the exterior dotted with condensation—and takes a sip. “Sure you don’t want one?” he asks, eyebrows up.
Hell, no. The last thing I need is to drink around him. I’m already contending with the mental slideshow of his many talents: him wielding a toolbox (why are ultra-competent men instantly ten times sexier?), and now, him at the stove, which is somehow even worse. Throwing alcohol into that mix is asking for trouble.
“Water is fine, thanks.”
He pours me a glass from the pitcher in the fridge.
My gaze lands on his very round ass, and I glance away. “What are you making?”
Turning, he flashes a grin. “My famous no-cook pasta.”
I frown. “Raw pasta? Bit difficult to chew, no?”
Josh comes close—way, way too close as he offers me the glass. “The sauce is raw, not the pasta,” he murmurs, amused. “I promise you’ll be impressed.”
I take the glass with hands that don’t shake despite the wave of raw masculinity radiating off him at close range. Years in the ER have taught me how to stay cool under pressure, and I’ve never been more grateful for the training.
I clear my throat. “So you can fix almost anything, you cook… What else are you great at?”
He doesn’t move back, just tilts his head and grins. “Are you sure you want an answer to that?”
