“Food’s ready,” she said. “Before the kids revolt.”
As I prepared a plate for Harper, she came barreling toward me, dripping wet, curls plastered to her forehead, asking for another Popsicle.
I crouched instinctively, wiping water from her cheeks. “How many have you had?”
“Two.”
“Then no.”
She pouted. “You’re the worst.”
Dani appeared behind her, smiling as if she’d already known the answer. “Told you he’d say no.”
Harper crossed her arms. “You should be in charge.”
I glanced up at Dani. “Traitor.” Her laughter was unapologetic, and then she brushed her fingers lightly against my forearm, the touch as casual as her words.
“Someone has to balance you out,” she said with a certainty that seemed to reach right inside me.
Harper grabbed Dani’s hand and dragged her back toward the cooler, already mid-story about something dramatic involving a sprinkler malfunctioning.
Dani looked back over her shoulder at me, eyes soft.
I didn’t know when it happened. Only that the truth was weighing on me like a ton of bricks: I couldn’t stop thinking about Dani. It was as if her presence had turned up the brightness in my world, a light in the shadows I’d long accepted as permanent. Her laughter, echoing down the hallways, replaced the silence that once hung heavy in our home. She fit seamlessly into our lives.
And that scared the hell out of me.
I’d buried my wife six years ago. Held Harper in my arms before she ever got to know her mother. I once built my entire life around not needing anything I could lose again, but then Dani showed up.
Across the yard, Dani looked too good in the sun. Too bright. Too alive.
And for the first time in a long time, I wondered if maybe, just maybe, I’d been in the dark long enough.
And maybe, letting her in wouldn’t ruin me.
Chapter 32
Dani
The pool party had been fun.
Things always were whenever Cami and I got together. She had this way of turning any gathering into something you didn’t want to leave. The music was just loud enough, snacks somehow appeared exactly when you needed them, and waves of laughter that made you forget you’d been holding tension in your shoulders all week.
Logan had been there the whole time, drifting in and out of conversation. He was a man who preferred to skate around the edges. He’d played with Harper, let her climb all over him, and tossed her in the water once just to hear her squeal. Then he pretended to be annoyed when she hugged him, soaking wet.
It had been a good day.
I’d called it an early night, following Logan and Harper home so that I would be there for Harper when Logan returned to Florida the next morning. It made sense on paper. It was practical. Responsible. Exactly the kind of choice I’d built my life on.
But on the drive back, with soft music and Logan’s headlights haunting my rearview, a deeper ache pressed inside me.
Now back at the house, I sat on the back patio. A warm mug of tea and honey was cradled in my hand. The air still carried the warmth of the day—salt and sunscreen lingered, and the faint smell of chlorine clung to my skin. I tipped my head back, staring up at the stars just starting to peek through the darkening sky, and let myself replay every look and every moment I’d pretended not to notice.
Logan hadn’t been staring; he wasn’t that obvious. Instead, he had a way of tracking with his eyes, as if he were watching the world through a narrow lens, and I kept moving into frame. The way his gaze would linger when I laughed too hard, or when his attention tightened when I bent to help Harper with her floaties. And the way his hand would clench around the neck of his beer bottle, knuckles whitening, as if he was holding himself still by force.
He’d carried a faint crease between his brows, like he was annoyed with himself for noticing at all. That grumpy restraint he wore like armor, jaw tight, shoulders squared, had been there, but something kept slipping through it. Me.
And I knew exactly what I was doing when I got ready that morning.
