His laugh is delightfully unexpected. Loud and deep, it echoes in the alley, melding with mine.
Alex stares at me, a crooked smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “I haven’t laughed like that in fucking months.”
“Me, neither,” I say quietly.
I stare back at him, as the soft breeze rustles his hair and wafts my way a faint spice, a hint of citrus. I think it’s his scent. And I think I like it.
I think I likehim.
Argos whines from his mopey perch at my feet, his gaze fixed on Alex.
Sighing, Alex glances toward Argos and unearths a spoon from his back pocket. “Don’t worry, pea-brain. I came prepared.”
I watch Alex scoop a mound of vanilla gelato from his bowl and offer it to my dog, holding the spoon patiently while Argos licks it clean.
That’s when it all begins, the first time it whispers through my thoughts.
I love him.
I wish I could say it was the last.
CHAPTER 8NOW
July 22, twelve days until “vacation”
Happy Alex is back, and I couldn’t be happier.
He’s whistling in the kitchen—translation: a good cooking day—and when I showed up at the house a half hour ago, he hugged me in his Alex way, smooshed against his chest, his hand cupping my neck; then he handed me a plate of bucatini carbonara that smelled phenomenal and somehow tasted even better.
Alex’s cheery whistle carries from the open kitchen window out to the backyard, where I’m hanging with Mia, sprawled on a lawn chair, my toes grazing cool pool water. Mia floats on her back in her beloved inflatable pool, wearing an oversized pair of white sunglasses and her favorite yellow polka-dot swimsuit. The air bubble she trapped inside her swimsuit at her belly looks the way mine feels, stuffed with Alex’s delicious pasta.
I sigh contentedly. Then I steal a final surreptitious lick of my now-clean plate.
“I saw that,” Mia says.
Not so surreptitious, then.
“Those celebrity sunglasses have to go,” I tell her. “I never know where you’re looking.”
Mia lifts two fingers and points them toward her eyes, then me. I laugh, which makes Mia laugh, too.
“I don’talwayslick my plate,” I explain. “Just, you know, in private. When the food is fantastic. So basically I do it a lot at your house.”
Mia nods sagely. “Same. I always want to lick my lunch containers at school, on Dad days. But I don’t, because Mommy and Daddy said it’s not nice manners in public.” She sighs. “Such a waste.”
Another laugh jumps out of me. “I hear ya, kid.”
“So you liked it?” she asks.
I smile. “Loved it.”
“Dad!” Mia yells toward the kitchen. “Thea loves the bucatini!”
“Excellent!” Alex says from inside. “Because I do, too. Fucking finally,” he adds quietly, but not quietly enough for Mia to miss it.
She grins. Then she yells, “I heard that!”
I hear Alex’s groan through the kitchen window and watch his head drop back in defeat. He disappears out of sight, then a minute later walks out onto the back stoop and down the steps, three cake pops in hand. They’re Christmas colors—red and green icing, dusted with white sprinkles.
