VINCE
Ihear Fletcher outside my door before I see him—the soft thud of something being set down, the faint clink of glass. Smoothing my hands over my jeans, I tell myself to stop pacing and check my watch even though I know the time. I’ve seen the minutes tick by for close to two hours.
Then Fletcher steps through the door, and my breath catches. He’s wearing dark slacks and a fitted button-down, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his forearms. His hair is still a little damp from the shower, his beard groomed perfectly.
For a second, my brain stutters, heat flushing my face that has nothing to do with my body misfiring.
He sets a travel tote on a chair inside the door and stops when he sees me, eyes widening.
“Wow,” he says softly.
I’m in a charcoal vest over a black shirt, a plain black belt and leather shoes. The vest will probably be too warm later, but it felt right when I put it on. I want to look like I’m trying. Like this matters. Because it does.
I’m meeting Fletcher’s family. His ex-wife. People who still mean everything to him.
Fletcher’s gaze lingers, not hungry exactly, but appreciative in a way that makes my pulse kick up. He walks slowly over to me, tugging at the vest. “You look incredible.”
“So do you.” It’s an understatement if ever there was one.
I want to pull him closer, but I’m too afraid to let go of the chair I’m holding onto. My legs aren’t cooperating today. Every step is unsteady. If he notices, he doesn’t show it.
His mouth quirks. “Are you nervous?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Only because I know you,” he says softly, stepping into my space. I get a whiff of his almond beard oil and my belly swoops. My God, he even smells amazing. “You look as calm as ever.”
I swallow. He can’t know what that means to me. “I don’t want to mess this up.”
“You won’t.” He touches my smooth chin. “The trimmer worked, I take it?”
He’d offered his electric trimmer two days ago after seeing yet another cut from my poor attempts at shaving. “Yeah. Finally feel like myself again. Thank you.”
He leans in for a quick kiss. “Good. I’m gonna miss the beard, though. Not going to lie.”
I chuckle and reach for a plate on the counter, securely wrapped in cling wrap. I’d woken up early to make it, measuring and re-measuring ingredients just to be sure.
“Spicy cheese ball,” I say, lifting it. “I may have been a little aggressive with the cayenne.”
Fletcher grins. “Ryan’s family likes heat. You’ll be a hero.”
“Or banned forever.”
He nudges me with his hip. “They’ll like you. Stop worrying.” He gestures to the zippered travel tote. “I’m bringing sweet potato gratin. It’s Georgie’s favorite.”
That brings a real smile out of me, the kind that loosens something tight in my chest.
Moving slowly, I tuck the cheese ball into the bag along with the two boxes of crackers to go with it. Fletcher watches me without comment, almost like he knows my legs are acting up today.
He steps in beside me and quietly takes the bag before I can. No fuss. No commentary. Just a seamless transfer of responsibility. Then he offers his arm.
“Ready?”
I nod, even though my stomach flips. “As I’ll ever be.”
The drive over is quiet in a good way. He keeps the music low and the air blowing, a little cooler than necessary. The road is damp with rain, streetlights blurring into gold streaks across the windshield. I watch Fletcher’s hands on the wheel, the easy, relaxed way he handles the corners. I wish I could absorb some of his calm.
“Hey,” he says, eyes still on the road. “You don’t have to perform today, okay?”
