Farrah peeked out the small window in the front door. “I think he’s here.”
“Get away from that window,” Brooke said. “Aren’t you supposed to be putting my son to bed?”
“Oh my God. He’s totally driving a Porsche 911. Who is this guy?”
“Farrah!”
“Just let me get a good look at him. You know, to make sure he’s not an ax murderer or something. I wish I could see his license plate.”
“Farrah!”
“Okay, he’s getting out of the car. Wait. He’s got white hair. Seriously, how old is this dude?” She whipped her cell phone out, held it against the window, and clicked off three frames in rapid succession.
“Farrah!” Brooke’s teeth were clenched. She wiped her sweaty palms on the side of her white jeans. Her stomach was doing flip-flops, and she could already feel the familiar heat creeping up from her collarbone. She’d felt like this for the past hour. It was as though she were reliving junior high again. Why in God’s name had she agreed to go out with Gabe Wynant?
“Okay, he’s standing by the car, but he’s not moving. He’s looking at hiswatch. He actually dresses kind of cool for an old guy. He’s not even wearing dad jeans.” She snapped off a few more photos.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m taking his picture, so if you don’t come back tonight, I’ll have something to take to the cops.”
“Farrah!”
“I’m going.”
The doorbell rang. Brooke took a last gulp of her white wine and pasted a smile on her face.
“Hey, you,” she said.
“Hey, you too,” Gabe said. He was dressed casually, in dark wash—but not dad-style—jeans and a crisp, pale yellow dress shirt with rolled cuffs. He wore Gucci loafers, but no socks. “Ready to go?”
“Come on in for a minute. I just need to look in on Henry and kiss him good—”
“Noooooooo!” The three-year-old ran into the living room, dressed in his pajama top, but naked from the waist down. He threw himself against Brooke’s legs, wrapping his arms around her knees. “Nooooo. I don’t want you to gooooo!”
Farrah darted into the room after him. “Sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I turned to grab his pull-ups and he made a run for the door.”
“Come on, Henry,” she said, gently trying to coax the boy away from his mother. “It’s story time.Good Night, Good Night, Construction Site. Your favorite.”
Henry tried to slap away the babysitter’s hands. “No. I go with Mama.”
Brooke leaned down and hoisted the boy into her arms. “Hey, little man. It’s time for bed. You go with Farrah and help her read, and I’ll be home before you know it.”
He shook his head, then stared at Gabe. “Who that?”
Gabe smiled nervously. “Hi, Henry. I’m Gabe.”
“This is Mama’s friend,” Brooke added. “Can you say, ‘Hi, Gabe’?”
“Gimme five!” Gabe said, holding his hand out, palm up.
Henry buried his face in Brooke’s shoulder. “Noooo!” he wailed.
Farrah reached out and managed to peel the boy off his mother. “Let’s go, Henry McBenry,” she said, heading back to the bedroom. “Have a good time, Brooke,” she called over her shoulder. “Nice to meet you, Gabe.”
***
He’d chosen a new restaurant she’d been meaning to check out. It was Italian, located in a restored craftsman cottage a block away from the waterfront. There were flowers and candles on the table, which actually had a white tablecloth.
