Chapter Three
HARPER
Turquoise felt was surprisinglyhard to work with. I smoothed a piece over the table and tried again, the sequins catching and sticking to my fingers like stubborn glitter ants. I ignored the tension building in my shoulders and focused on gluing a rogue sparkle into place.
This was for Finn.
Everything was for Finn.
My son hummed a tuneless song from the other side of the table, his eyes soft as he lined up a row of seashells. The warm illumination of the kitchen lights caught on his brown hair and haloed his small, busy hands. His abstracted smile told me that his biggest care in the world was this parrotfish costume. Mine was keeping it that way.
The kitchen table was an ocean of felt, sequins, and supplies, a colorful chaos that was giving me hives. The faintly sweet scent of glue mixed with the last trace of baked chicken from dinner, settling into a weird, not-quite-appetizing aroma that reminded me of how uncreative Iwas. It was Finn’s night to choose our activity, and he’d picked costume making, possibly in an effort to bankrupt me in glitter.
“Do parrotfish have teeth, Mom? Like super sharp ones?”
I smiled at his crayon drawing and the determined way he moved shells into a complex arrangement only he could decode. “I think they have more of a beak.”
The sequin slipped again, and I thought briefly about Eli’s offer to help. But I needed to do this. A small act of control in the bedlam of managing the resort while being a single mom. The gluey frustration in my fingers was oddly comforting, a tangible reminder that I was doing something for my boy. I wanted to be the kind of mom who was good at this. Who made him feel whole and loved and like he wasn’t missing anything.
I triumphantly pinned the sequin to the felt and glanced up. Finn was trying to open a jar of glitter glue with his teeth.
“Hey, no biting the supplies. You already had dinner, remember?”
He giggled. “I wasn’t gonna.”
His enthusiasm was contagious, even if I was hopelessly outmatched by craft supplies.
He glanced at my part of the project and frowned. “Mom, are you sure parrotfish have big scales?”
“They’re huge,” I said, just as the last sequin fell from the felt. I huffed in mock annoyance. “They’re just really hard to catch.”
“I can help you,” Finn declared, handing me an already sticky piece of blue fabric.
I took it from him, brushing a stray curl from his forehead with the back of my hand. “I know you can, sweetheart.”
As we settled into the project, my thoughts wandered to the pile of invoices waiting on my desk at work and the email from the window contractor explaining the delays in the new bungalows. My head ached at the memory of my day, and I focused again on gluing a row of shimmery sequins, willing myself to enjoy this pocket of time with Finn.
Chase flashed through my mind, that disconcerting combination of competence and pure masculine appeal. His calm certainty as he walked me through the pool reno plans, the brush of his arm against mine as we huddled over the wood sample for the cabana frame. His quiet intensity as he smiled at me in that way he had, like I was more than the sum of my obligations. It had been so long since I’d felt that pooling heat in the belly, that delicious shiver over the skin, that I was surprised I was still capable of it.
Though we certainly weren’t without our frictions. We’d butted heads multiple times over designs, materials, and schedules, over my desire for practical and budget-friendly warring with his preference for artistic and expensive. The weird thing was that the disagreements only heightened the connection between us. The interaction at the pool flitted through my head again. Was I imagining that moment between us? That frisson of heat, flaming hot out of nothing?
“What’s next?” Finn’s bright and eager voice pulled me back, and I smiled at him.
“We’ve got a way to go with this. What do you think?”
He pondered for a moment, lips pursed in a comically thoughtful expression. “The rainbow tail!”
I reached for the rainbow shimmer fabric. “That sounds perfect.”
We worked together, a slow rhythm of cutting andgluing and adjusting. I let Finn’s delight guide me, and the rest of my worries faded like the soft, gluey light that filled the kitchen.
Finn gave the instructions, moving sequins around the fabric. “Right there, Mom! No, a little more. Right—no—yes! Right there!” He bounced with each word, nearly falling off his chair. I grinned at him, and the warmth of his enthusiasm melted the icy edges of my stress.
“How’s that?” I exhaled, letting the layers of anxiety slip off my shoulders. Even if I was underqualified and overwhelmed and unable to stop everything from sliding into disarray, Finn’s confidence in me was all that mattered.
“Are you going to sew on the big scales?” he asked, pointing at the package of needles I bought in a futile moment of ambition.
“Think I’m going to cheat and use more glue.” I laughed as I reached for the adhesive. “How about this one? Extra strength. It’s a mom’s best friend.”
