“You mean someone you love?”
“Yes—”
“Like Granny?”
I suppress a smile. “Not quite like Granny. But a lady. A woman.”
He’s thinking about his answer when he points out the window. “Look. There’s Miss MacIntosh.”
Following the line of his finger, I see what he sees. Sure enough, Story is crossing the street. After yearsof having no contact, seeing her walk toward me again with her beaming smile is something I will never tire of. It’s the smile I pictured on my darkest of days.
“She’s waving at us.” He delights, waving back. “D’you think she’s coming in here?”
“It looks that way.”
When Max turns away and faces me, his expression is curious. “Daddy, I think she’s by herself.”
I spin around to check. “I believe you’re correct again, Maxy.”
“Maybe she’d like to join us?” Max’s shoulders lift so high they brush his ears.
“Would that be okay with you if she did?”
Max nods. “Yes.”
“Then why don’t you go ask her?”
He jumps up, bold and determined, and my heart swells three sizes. Story coming to meet us was planned, but I had nothing to do with my son’s reaction to seeing her. I can’t lie and say it doesn’t make me inordinately happy. It gives me a shred of hope that the process of changing his relationship with her from teacher to personal will be much easier.
I’ve already orderedallthe books from Amazon about single dads and dating.Toomany, probably, but I refuse to believe that you can be overprepared.
“Good morning,” greets Story, arriving at the table she’s being dragged to.
“Good morning.” I grin, standing to pull her chair out, fighting the urge to kiss her like I want to. When she flicks her hair behind her ear, the faint floral scent it leaves behind makes my heart judder. “Thank you for joining us. You look very pretty.”
“Why, thank you.” She tips her head and smiles at me, and her cheeks turn as pink as the hair band she’s wearing. “Max invited me to join you both, though he’s already warned me everything’s covered in pink.”
“Even the hot chocolate,” he grumbles. “Chocolate is supposed to be brown.”
Story peers around. “You’re right, Max. It’s very pink.Verypink. But I don’t mind because it’s my second favorite color.”
Max’s eyes meet hers over the hot chocolate he’s still not touched. “What’s your first favorite color?”
“It’s light purple.”
His reply is immediate. “Did you know light purple is called lilac?”
My hand drops to my side. Under the table, I reach for Story’s hand and squeeze it. She squeezes it back, gentle and affirming.
Fuck, I love her. I always have, and sitting here listening to her have a conversation with my son is something I never realized I needed.
“Actually, I did know.”
“That’s my favorite color too. And it’s my daddy’s.”
Story turns to me, eyes sparkling bright. Miles isn’t the only one I can have silent communication with because I hear everything she says with that look. We’re transported back to the day we first met two decades ago.
“What other things are your favorites?”
