“I played my fair share of basketball in high school,” I tell him.
He laughs under his breath. “Careful, Ashcroft. You’re up against the regional state champ. Two years in a row. You might want to stretch first.”
I don’t bother to reply. Instead, I raise a brow, grab a ball, and sink the first shot clean.
We’re three rounds in, our jackets abandoned, sleeves pushed up to our elbows, when Jesse’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He digs the iPhone from his jeans and glances down, and something in his whole demeanor softens—the grin, the energy, all of it.
“Give me one sec,” he murmurs, already stepping to the side. He swipes across the screen, and I realize he’s answering a FaceTime call. My fingers tighten around the basketball in my hands.Who would be FaceTiming him?
I tell myself not to care. It’s none of my business who he talks to. But curiosity burns inside of me.
“Hey, bug,” he says, and the tenderness in his tone almost knocks the wind out of me. “What are you up to?”
There’s a little voice on the other end, high and bright with excitement. “I painted you something! Wanna see?”
I freeze as a rush of heat floats up my back to the nape of my neck. The little girl. The one I saw him with that day on Front Street. It has to be her.
“Of course, I wanna see,” Jesse says, smiling so wide it makes my chest ache. “Show me what you did.”
He lifts the phone slightly, and I catch a glimpse of a little girl with dark blonde curls. She’s perched at a table, proudly holding up her artwork. Itisher. The image hits me all over again—Jesse carrying her on his hip, the easy laughter between them. I press my lips together, fighting something that feels a lot like jealousy. I silently chastise myself for being so ridiculous. Jesse is my boss. Caring about his personal life is not in my job description.
“That’s beautiful,” he says softly. “You’re amazing, Poppy.”
My heart stumbles.Poppy.
“Mommy helped with the sky,” she says sweetly. “But I did everything else myself.”
“Tell Mommy she’s got competition,” Jesse says, his voice filled with warmth. “You’re a real artist, bug.”
“I miss you,” the girl says, her bottom lip sticking out in an adorable pout.
His expression softens further. “I miss you too, sweet girl. But I’ll see you really soon, okay? How about you and me and Uncle Wes and Uncle Noah go see a movie next week? Does that sound good?”
“Yes!” she squeals.
“Okay, then It’s a date. Be good for your mom. Give her a hug for me.”
“Okay. Love you!”
“Love you more, cutie-pop.”
Jesse ends the call with a laugh and slips his phone back into his pocket. “Sorry about that,” he says, flashing me a grin. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your losing streak.”
“Oh. Yeah, that’s fine,” I manage, aiming for casual but ending up at weirdly flustered. My hand fumbles for another coin that I don’t actually need. I hate that I can’t stop thinking about the little girl’s face on his screen. His daughter. It has to be. And if she is his child, who is her mom?
He tilts his head as if he’s studying me. “You okay, Mads? You kind of look like you just saw a ghost.”
“Totally fine.” I toss the ball, missing completely, and immediately pretend it doesn’t matter.
His grin softens into something quiet, knowing. “You can ask, you know.”
“Ask what?”
“Who that was,” he says, eyes glinting with amusement. “You’ve been dying to ever since I answered.”
My mouth opens, then closes. “I—no, I haven’t.”
“You’re a bad liar,” he says, stepping closer, voice dipping. “So go ahead, Mads. Ask and I’ll give you an answer.”
