“You deserve to be more than fine, Mallory,” Tate replies, which wasn’t what I expected to hear come out of his mouth so I’m thrown.
“I was there when my best friend died, up close and personal,” I confess, my voice soft and scratchy because it hurts to make this confession. “I was the only witness to her fiancé abandoning the perfect little boy he promised her he would look after no matter what. And then I was forced to fly that perfect little boy here to blow up your life. So yeah, I’ve had better days. But trust me, the broken ribs and concussion and this little cut are the least of my injuries.”
He blinks. His eyes move from my hand, which is pointing to the little scab on my forehead where the stitches used to be before they dissolved. And then, before I can change the subject and reach for the coffee pot, my nose is buried in his pecs. His thick arms are wrapped around my shoulders and his neck is bent so his face is pressed into the top of my head. And it feels so fucking good I start to cry. And I hate him for it so I shove him away and wipe at my eyes. "Don't do that."
“Sorry,” Tate whispers. “I just… you’ve been through so much and I wanted to comfort you.”
“Thanks but don’t, okay?” I choke out and take a deep shuddering breath to calm myself. “I’ll deal with myself later. Just work on bonding with Dylan and figuring this out so I can walk away, okay?”
“I’m trying,” he whispers.
I pour my coffee. He walks around the counter and grabs a mug from the ones hanging next to his fancy coffee maker and I pour him one too. He slides a box across the counter to me and I flip the lid and see a colorful delicious-looking assortment of donuts. I pluck up one covered in powdered sugar as the doorbell rings.
“Roscoe’s,” Tate winks at me and heads out of the room.
I take a deep breath… well, as deep as I can with my ribs. Every moment of every day that Tate and I are in the same space I feel heavy. There’s so much weighing on us. The things we still have to talk about, the things we are talking about, and the stuff we will never talk about.
He arrives back in the kitchen with a bag that smells like heaven. "Oh my God, I should have asked you to order this the very first night."
Tate smiles. “I would have, but I was busy having my life turned upside down.”
I glance at him and he shoots me a quirky little smile. I can't help but smile back. He opens the bag and quickly dishes up my breakfast and his. He got the same thing, only he ordered an extra chicken breast. We both devour the delicious waffles and chicken in a nearly comfortable silence. As I'm licking the last of the syrup off my fingers he tears into his second chicken breast and asks, "Can I ask you to interview your replacement while I'm on this road trip. I talked to a local agency and they've got four candidates they can send over this week."
I hate that he used the word replacement, even though it makes sense. I reach for what’s left of my coffee, walk around the island, and peer into the living room. Dylan is happily chewing on a teething ring, on his back kicking his feet in the air. “Shouldn’t you be the one who interviews them?”
“I will, as a second interview, if you think they deserve one,” Tate replies. “But you’re better suited to vet their actual skills. You know what Dylan needs more than I do, at the moment.”
"Okay, I guess," I say with resignation because I hate the idea that someone else will be with Dylan. And Tate. I mean some strange woman will be living in that bedroom, right across the hall from him. "This is a live-in position?"
“Yeah, but not here,” Tate replies and I turn to face him, stunned. “This place is too choppy for a kid. All the stairs and no grassy outdoor space. I mean if I don’t move now, I’ll end up moving next year anyway. I have a realtor looking into stuff for me. Also, a lawyer writing up an NDA for the nanny.”
Wow. He has been handling more than I realized. Had I been getting frustrated with him for no reason? “Okay yeah, I will do the preliminary interviews.”
“I’ll set it up at the coffee shop around the corner,” Tate says. “Safer there than having strangers here. Also, if you need help with Dylan while I’m away there’s this married guy on the team, MacFarlane and he says his wife has a really good babysitter. I got her info.”
“You told a guy on the team about Dylan?”
He shakes his head squashing the little bloom of hope in my chest. “I told them I had a friend visiting with a kid.”
Oh. My heart sinks.
And then his phone rings and he makes everything worse. He grabs it off the counter and his eyes find mine. He looks mildly panicked. “It’s my sister.”
“Okay.”
“If I don’t answer, Tenley will go all Olivia Benson on my ass and hunt me down,” Tate explains. “She may even show up here or something nuts. She once broke into my place at two in the morning because I ignored her calls and texts for two days and she thought I was dead or kidnapped or something.”
“So answer it,” I prompt and Dylan coos loudly from the living room. He’s sitting up now and getting bored, I can tell. He’s also a little tired judging by the way his eyes are dropping.
Tate looks at me and then at Dylan. “Can you guys… give me some privacy.”
“You haven’t told her.”
“Not yet.”
I inhale deeply, swallowing down the disappointment and frustration I’m feeling toward him right now. “Tenley isn’t going to rat you out to your parents. And she could help with him.”
His shoulders stiffen defensively. “It’s not exactly an easy conversation, okay? I’ll tell them all, at the same time, when it’s right and that’s not now. So can you please give me some privacy?”
