Of course he’d add the wink. The man is thirty-four, going on menace. And of course, he’d promise a massage. My hormones do a very unhelpful cartwheel, just as a fresh cramp twists low in my stomach.God, why this week? Why now?
I scowl at the note like it’s personally betrayed me. Because I am, in fact, on my period. Which means all massages must remain strictly platonic unless we’re both prepared for disappointment, blood, and maybe tears. Still… there areotherthings we can do.
Zoe’s place smells like garlic butter and clean laundry, which feels exactly right for a girls’ night I didn’t know I needed.Amelia couldn’t make it, so it’s just the three of us. Imogen’s already cross-legged with a glass of red, Isla’s curled into the corner with a cushion under her knees, Zoe is topping up some wine glasses, and I’m late because the Mitchells never leave a conversation in under fifteen minutes.
It’s a family trait—stubbornness disguised as conversation.
“Finally,” Imogen says, patting the cushion beside her.
I drop onto the sofa, kick off my Crocs, and accept the wine Zoe pushes into my hand. “We were just debriefing.”
The last few months have been a blur. Bradley and Amelia’s wedding, Joseph’s fourth birthday chaos, Zoe’s own birthday (where Michael somehow managed to find a cake shaped like a spanner, because of course he did), and my brother’s birthday next week. I listen to the girls chatter, sip my drink, smile and nod. I’m still thinking about the way Sebastian’s palm found the small of my back during the photos, the way his eyes found me when they shouldn’t have. Somewhere in the blur, I realise I don’t even know whenhisbirthday is.
I know the exact shade of hazel his eyes turn when he’s tired, but not the day he was born. I’m halfway down that thought spiral when a hand waves in front of my face.
I blink, forcing a smile. “Sorry, what?”
Zoe tips her head, eyes glinting. “We said, how’s your week been, Wild One?”
Only Zoe calls me that. It stuck after one unforgettable night at the Loose Lasso when I decided it’d be abrilliantidea to take on their brand-new mechanical bull. I lasted a full seven seconds—long enough for someone to cheer, snap a photo, and christen meWild One—before I face-planted into the padding.
I shrug, sipping my wine. “Fine. Farm’s good. Kevin’s still an asshole.”
Isla snorts. “Didn’t he bite your boot last week?”
“Boot, shirt, pride… take your pick.” I grin. “Babysitting’s also been good. The usual.”
I leave out the part about the late nights, the dinners that feel too domestic, the way Teddy’s laughter fills spaces I didn’t know were empty. And Idefinitelyleave out the part where his father fingered me on the couch after the wedding. Becausethatwould change the mood real quick. Imogen narrows her eyes with the precision of a woman who knows when I’m lying.
“You cracked Grumpy Dad yet?”
“Cracked?” I lift my glass. “He’s not a safe. He’s… a person.”
“She’s blushing,” Isla announces, smacking Imogen’s arm. “Liv never blushes.”
“I am not.”
“You are,” Imogen says in a sing-song tone.
“Oh, piss off.” I try to play it off. “I blush… sometimes.”
“Not since I’ve known you,” Zoe says, bumping my shoulder. “Is it… friendlier than three months ago when you started? August feels like a lifetime ago, babe.”
I groan, covering my face. “You’re all insufferable. We’re… easier around each other.” I roll the stem of my glass between my fingers. “Teddy and I make a great team now. I’ve gotten better at understanding his needs and how to support him. I’m learning more every day about ASD and what works best for him. And Sebastian and I—well, we’ve finally figured out how to talk without biting each other’s heads off. And he pays me well, so whatever.”
Imogen whistles. “Growth.”
“Okay, but real talk,” Isla’s smile softens. “When did babysitting become dinners and movie nights?”
I freeze, mid-sip.What the hell. How does she know that?Then it hits me. Amelia.Oh, she’s dead.Absolutely, one-hundred-per-cent dead. But harmless, right?Probably.
“It’s not—” I start, then exhale, setting my glass down. “Sometimes he works late, sometimes I stay for dinner. It’s just easier to feed the small human and then put him down. We’re…friends.” I pause, though I already know the answer. “Who told you that, anyway?”
Isla shrugs. “Amelia might’ve mentioned it. We were talking about shows, andThe Rookiecame up, and, well… one thing led to another.”
Of course.Amelia and her big, honest heart. The woman couldn’t keep a secret to save her life. Clearly.
“We are friends,” I repeat, hearing the defensiveness in my own tone, but honestly, I don’t even know what to call it. “Getting along for Teddy.”
