It speaks to my lack of influence as a father, perhaps. I was too busy—always working, as Amber used to whine—so I wasn’t there to rein him in or counter their guidance. If I had been around more, he might not be the liar he’s become.
I stop at the edge of the park, hands in my coat pockets, breath visible in the air.
Perry is not naïve. She’s not passive. She entered my life deliberately. I can see that clearly now. She chose to flirt with me and continues to choose it. The woman is interested in me, and I in her. I am confident of her attraction to me.
What unsettles me is the unknown variable of the father.
If he exists in this town, he will surface eventually. Men talk. Women talk more efficiently. If he doesn’t live here, that could make things simpler, but men tend to show up when things get interesting, and he could try to walk back into her life the moment the twins interest him.
Or, if he decides she interests him again.
I dismiss the thought. Speculation without evidence is indulgence.
I resume walking.
The larger issue is simpler: I like her. That is the axis everything else rotates around. Which brings me back to my original question. Is it too soon to ask who her sons’ father is?
Perhaps.
But in a town this small, waiting too long can be just as reckless as asking too soon.
11
PERRY
Olivia swearsthis is a good idea.
“It’s low stakes,” she says while helping me zip up a dress I haven’t worn since before I was pregnant. “You won’t get attached.”
“I don’t get attached,” I mutter.
She gives me a look in the mirror.
“Fine,” I amend. “I get selectively attached.”
“That’s worse.”
His name is Wesley Tisdale, the Third. TheThird.
The Tisdales are Snow Valley royalty without the land. Old banking money. Country club board members. The kind of family that has a crest but pretends they don’t.
“He’s safe,” Olivia insists. “He’s handsome, wealthy, deeply boring. The perfect palate cleanser.”
“I have twins,” I remind her.
“And?”
“And why the hell is a Tisdale interested in going out with me?”
It gives her pause. I see the line in the middle of her brow form, then vanish. “Maybe because you’re pretty.”
“I don’t feel pretty.” I feel stitched. Tired. Slightly leaky. My body is still recovering from eviction-level trauma. When I think about sex, parts of me ache in an extremely unsexy way.
But dinner? Dinner, I can do.
Olivia huffs, her hands on her hips. “You are pretty, you idiot.”
I roll my eyes, and the doorbell rings. Wesley. He is, unfortunately, very handsome. Tall. Clean-cut. Navy coat tailored to perfection. Hair styled like he’s never experienced humidity.
