It’s one of those Fridays where the paperwork appears faster than I can sift through it all, briefings drag long past useful, and a suspect who thought silence made him clever.
I was supposed to clock out hours ago. It’s six-fifteen now, and I’m still here. And the worst part? It annoys me, because I actually want to go home. It has nothing to do with the five-foot-something woman currently looking after my son. Absolutely nothing.
I shut the file in front of me, rub at the tension behind my neck, and tell myself one more lie: I just want to get home to my kid. Not to the woman making my house feel less empty.
The drive back home does what it usually does. Slows me down, yet by the time I pull into the driveway, my mood’s still rough around the edges. I step inside, toe off my boots, and the faint smell of soap and something sweet in the air instantly hits me.
Olivia comes down the hallway just as I put my bag down. “Oh. Hey,” she says, glancing up with that easy smile. “You’re not late at all.”
“Yeah. Something came up at work.”
Her brows lift, but she doesn’t ask. “Teddy’s been fed, bathed, and now asleep. Well, almost. I read him his bedtime story, so you can relax, unwind. No need to go in.”
I halt my steps. “You… read to him, and put him to sleep?” The words taste strange in my mouth. Because usually I do that. That’sourthing. No one else has read him to sleep before.
But tonight, he lether. I should be relieved. Proud, even. So why does something tighten in my chest instead? Something sharp and stupid that feels a hell of a lot like being replaced.
I swallow it down before it shows on my face. “Right,” I say quietly. “Good.”
She straightens, smoothing her hands over her dress. Adress. It hits me all at once. She’s in a fucking dress that brushes against her thighs. My attention stalls on those damn cowboy boots—heeled, of course—that make her legs look ten miles long. My mouth goes dry.
“You’re all dressed up,” I mutter, before I can stop myself. “Got plans?”
She hesitates. Just enough for me to notice. “Sort of.”
I arch a brow. “Sort of?”
“I have a… date.”
The word hits like a punch to the sternum.A date.My stomach tightens, and I can’t decide if it’s irritation or something else. I remind myself I have no right to either. “A date,” I repeat flatly. “Is he picking you up here?”
“Uh… yeah.” She says it lightly, almost a joke. “Is that a problem?”
“Yeah, it is.” I don’t even know why the hell it is, but it is. “This isn’t a bloody pit stop between your Friday night plans. It’s my home.”
She straightens, eyes flashing. “Excuse me? Since when does me hanging out with afriend”—she accentuates the word withair quotes—“have anything to do with you? Last I checked, I’m free to see whoever I want.”
The sound that leaves me is anything but pleasant. “Since thatfriendis pulling into my driveway, while my kid’s asleep metres away.” My voice drops lower. “That’s when.”
“Wow. Overstep much?” Her arms cross over her chest, the move only pushing her breasts higher, and Christ, it takes everything I have not to let my eyes drag down. I clench my jaw instead. “Heaven forbid someone disturb your fortress of solitude. You don’t get topolicewho I see, Daniels. You’re not my brother,” she adds.
“No. I most definitely am not.”
And the way her eyes flicker, surprised, annoyed, and something else entirely, tells me she hears every unspoken thing I didn’t mean to say.What the hell am I doing?
I’m exhausted. That’s the excuse. Has to be. Long day, longer week, and the last thing I need is to care who she’s dressed up for. Except I do. I drag my eyes away, forcing them anywhere but on her.Jesus, Daniels, pull your shit together.
Her voice drops, softer now. She takes a step closer. “Why do you even care? Is it really because I’m being picked up? Or the fact that I’m going on a date?”
That one knocks the wind out of me. She’s not throwing punches anymore. She wants an answer. One I can’t give. Because I do care. More than I should. And that pisses me off.
“I don’t care.” The lie tastes like gravel in my mouth. I shouldn’t have opened my damn mouth, but it’s too late. I’m the one who crossed the line. Of course, she’s free to do whatever she wants, but the thought of another man pulling into my driveway makes my fists clench.
Why does it feel wrong in a way I can’t rationalise?
Her phone buzzes against the bench just as headlights wash through the front window. She looks at the screen, then back at me. Waiting.
“You should go, or you’ll be late.” I turn before she can see whatever’s written on my face and head for the stairs. Upstairs, the house is still. Quiet. And I tell myself that’s why my chest feels tight. Because now that she’s gone, it’s too fucking quiet.
