"He really is," April agreed, still grinning like an idiot, even as a tiny thread of worry wound through her stomach. She never wanted Kevin to be like his bio-dad—manipulative to the core. But she dismissed the thought.Not my sweet boy.
They stood there in the emptying parking lot, hands linked, both of them grinning and feeling slightly guilty about being so happy Kevin was gone for the weekend.
But mostly just happy.
Shane tugged her closer, and April went willingly, letting him wrap his arms around her waist.
"So," he said, his voice low and warm against her ear. "Your place or mine?"
"Yours," April said immediately. "Pete's there. And your shower is bigger."
Shane laughed into her hair. "I like the way you think, Sweetness."
They walked to their cars together, and April couldn't stop smiling. Riversong’s loan was paid off, which freed up money for a new espresso machine—if she could convince Sonny to part with his cantankerous baby. Kevin was safe and happy. Shane was here and staying. And for the first time in longer than she could remember, everything felt... right.
TWENTY
You could tellthe day wanted to be perfect from the way the sun came in like a friendly stray cat—pushing through the curtains, laying itself across the foot of her bed, warm and insistent. The window was cracked for the breeze, and the willow by the river made a softshhhhsound that felt like summer telling secrets to the water.
April lay there for a minute just letting herself grin at the ceiling. They’d spent the first night at Shane’s place, and last night back at her house. She honestly didn’t know which she liked better—though there was that shower at his place—or if it even mattered.
She had this now. She had Shane. Notmaybe, notdon’t-jinx-it. She had Shane in the bone-deep, coffee-scented, this-is-my-life way that made her want to hum while she brushed her teeth.
Down the hall, Pete’s nails clicked softly on the hardwood. A second later he appeared in the bedroom doorway, head cocked, tail wagging, like a gentleman butler asking if the lady was awake yet. He wore his expectant face—the one that translated to:We said hike today; your words, not mine.
“Good morning, Pete.” She flopped a hand in invitation, and he padded over, resting his chin on the edge of the mattress to accept his ritual forehead kiss. “Tell your dad I’m?—”
“Already on it,” Shane’s voice came from beyond the door, easy and warm. A pan clinked, the coffee maker hissed. “Sourdough French toast and bacon. Not burned.”
“You say that like you’re surprised, but I know what a good cook you are.” She rolled onto her side, smiling into the pillow because she couldn’t stop. Kevin was still at camp, which meant no one was waiting for breakfast or a ride or help with algebra. She’d fallen asleep with Shane’s hand splayed over her stomach, waking now and then just to press her mouth to his shoulder because she could.
Pete’s ears pricked toward the bedroom door. He gave April one last patient look—I gottago back on breakfast duty—and left to supervise.
April stretched like a cat and slid out of bed. Shane’s t-shirt hit mid-thigh. She stopped by the mirror, then laughed at herself. This was how teenage girls looked at themselves after kissing a boy behind the bleachers. Except she was a grown, full-bodied woman who owned a business, had a kid, and was building a future on purpose this time. Still, the giddiness felt earned.
“Don’t come out yet,” Shane called.
Her eyebrows went up. “Bossy much?”
“Don’t come out yet,” he repeated, laughing, “please.”
She laughed. She went into the bathroom, washed her face, brushed her teeth, finger-combed her curly, tangled hair, and swiped on cherry-flavored chapstick because kisses. She stuck her head out the door.
“Is it safe yet?” she asked.
“Okay,” he called. “Come look.”
She padded down the hallway in bare feet, rounded the corner, and stopped. He’d set the table with his ridiculous attention to detail—folded tea towels as napkins, the little vase she never remembered to use now filled with wildflowers he must’ve picked by the river, syrup warmed in her one good pitcher because cold syrup was a crime against pancakes. And at the center the French toast, golden and obscene, covered in powdered sugar like new snow.
“Is this a seduction?” she asked, amused and feeling a little melty at the edges.
“That depends.” He came around the table with a plate and a grin that landed low in her belly. “Is it working?”
She waited until he set the plate down, then hooked two fingers in his belt loops and tugged him until his hips almost met hers. He smelled like coffee and clean cotton and a hint of sawdust from the shelves he’d hung for her last night.
“You had me at warm syrup,” she whispered, then kissed him just to savor the way he always kissed back—full, patient, like there was never a rush with her.
He cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek the way she loved it, then tipped his forehead to hers. “Eat first. Then shower. Then hike with Petey. Then I take care of that loose board on your porch.Thenyou can decide whether the rest of the seduction succeeds.”
