“It’s easy,” Chase piped up, swiveling from side to side on his barstool. “If you’re Jane and you share with me, I’ll eat the rest of the cake.”
“I’m not sharing my chocolate cake,” Ivy grumbled, her head still bent and golden hair cascading over her arms.
“You have to,” her brother singsonged. “Dad said so.”
Ivy straightened to better deliver her newly perfected eye roll, which involved lifting her gaze skyward for an extended period. Something told me this was a precursor to teenage attitude, but my girl wasn’t quite so jaded yet. And she loved her little brother.
She flipped her long hair and frowned. “Can you help me, Dad?”
I pulled a yikes face as I leaned in to read Ivy’s assignment. I supposed this wasn’t where I should admit that the fifth-grade curriculum scared the hell out of me. Thankfully, I rememberedenough about fractions to steer her in the right direction. I hoped.
Chase finished his homework and asked if he could watch TV in the basement till dinner was ready. I gave him a thumbs-up and moved to the stove to stir the marinara.
“What kind of pasta do you want? Rigatoni, tagliatelle?”
“Um…” Ivy glanced up, her nose wrinkled. “Rigatoni, but let me be in charge of the noodles. I’m almost done.”
“You got it.”
Five minutes later, we stood side by side doing our nightly father-daughter dinner dance. Ivy had taken a strong interest in cooking over the past few months and insisted on helping. Initially, it had been a pain in the ass to assign tasks I hadn’t been sure were safe, but Ivy had proved herself to be an asset. She followed directions to a tee and had learned how to properly wield a kitchen knife through online tutorials. Her heroes were Internet chefs who shared their recipes and helpful tips.
That wasn’t too surprising. Ivy had a habit of embracing her passions with a ferocity that was borderline obsessive.
For example: Ivy loved to read and had recently discovered a YA mystery series calledThe Adventures of Calaria Cartwright. She’d devoured them in order, researched everything there was to know about the author, drew characters in notebooks, asked for a beret for her birthday so she could dress like her favorite heroine. She’d even requested that we kindly respect her wish to be called Calaria.
Much to her mother’s chagrin, I’d gone along with it. Self-expression was important, and wanting to emulate a teenage do-gooder hadn’t seemed like a problem. And yes, I’d read a few books to be sure my daughter wasn’t being brainwashed by a dangerous cult. But it was just Ivy being Ivy…curious and passionate.
Her new passion came with the unexpected bonus of one-on-one father-daughter time. A solid thirty minutes, give or take, of chatting about her day, her friends, a funny story she’d heard, her favorite new book, or tonight…
“Have you ever been to California?”
“Yes.” I lowered the heat to simmer. “Why? Do you want to go?”
I opened a nearby cabinet and grabbed three plates, mildly concerned that my face was on fire. Christ, just a passing mention of Silas’s home state was all it took to spark a memory.
Almost a month had passed since we’d said good-bye, and while it had certainly been a memorable episode, it was over and done—no chance of a repeat. Not that I was looking for one.
Life had continued as per usual in a series of carpools, endless trips to Fallbrook for school drop-offs, and yes…work. A few new lucrative contracts had been signed that would keep the mill busier than ever this year. And then there was the Mill Depot deal, a multi-million-dollar venture that would put Wood Hollow on the map and bring jobs to the entire state. Exciting, but as the point man, sometimes I had more stress on my plate than was healthy.
During weeks that the kids were with their mom, I worked late to make sure things progressed smoothly. Of course, if Chase and Ivy were here, they came first…no contest. But once they went to bed, I’d pull out my computer and get back to it.
Bottom line: I didn’t have the bandwidth to think about a man I’d met three weeks ago. Yet I thought about Silas all the fucking time.
It had been worse in the days just after he’d left. My sheets and towels had smelled like him; the scent of my shampoo and soap was his now. Christ, I couldn’t open a damn can of soup without seeing his face, and the sight of a half-melted snowmanon Main Street evoked a memory of the mischievous glint in his eyes as he’d rolled snowballs, his cheeks pink from the cold.
I’d wanted to tell him that my kids had found his Frosty and had finished him off with stick arms, a carrot nose, and a Red Sox ball cap. I’d taken a photo and had almost sent it, but that hadn’t seemed wise.
Silas wasn’t my friend. Not really. And incessantly wondering how he was doing wasn’t smart.
It had been bad enough during playoff season and the days leading up to the Super Bowl. There’d been no escaping the football hype in town…or anywhere. Commercials, ads, and even entertainment news.
Celebrity gossip wasn’t something I’d ever paid attention to…until two days ago when Layla had asked me if Alli Anderson was related to the hottie who’d visited Wood Hollow last month.
First of all, I’d had no idea that Layla knew anything about Silas. And second—Alli, who?
“Huh?”
“Alli Anderson,” she’d repeated, handing me a cup of coffee. “She’s the gorgeous blond dating Liam Sutcliffe.”
