“One drink,” he says. “To thank you. For everything.”
I know what I should do. I should say no, grab my coat, and walk out the door before this goes somewhere we can’t come back from.
“One drink,” I hear myself say instead.
We end up in his kitchen, leaning against opposite counters, glasses of red wine in hand. I try not to stare, but it’s hard.
The kitchen is stunning—herringbone hardwood floors, a marble backsplash that catches the under-cabinet lighting, and an island big enough to seat four, complete with a built-in wine cooler beneath. It has professional-grade everything—a kitchen you’d see on Pinterest and assume no one actually owns. But there’s a step stool by the sink so Maisie can reach the faucet, and a cookie jar shaped like a dinosaur sits on the counter. A bowl of clementines rests nearby, and a chore chart on the wall features Maisie’s name in glitter letters. A permission slip for a field trip clings to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a hockeypuck. It’s not a showroom; luxury meets real life, and somehow, that makes it even more attractive.
“She showed me around her room,” I say. “Very strong opinions about bookshelf organization.”
“Let me guess—arranged by height?”
“Tallest to shortest. She made me fix one I accidentally bumped.”
“That’s my girl.” He takes a sip of wine, and I watch his throat move as he swallows. “What else did you two talk about?”
“Bluey, Ellie the elephant, and the fact that you don’t eat green vegetables.”
“She lies.”
“She also mentioned her mom.”
His expression shifts—not exactly closing off, but becoming careful. “What did she say?”
“Just that her mom left and didn’t come back.” I set my wine glass down. “And that she worries about you not coming back too.’”
Zayden is quiet for a moment. “I know. I’m trying to show her I’m not going anywhere. But it’s hard to undo that kind of damage.”
“You’re doing a good job. She knows you love her.”
He smiles, soft and tired. “Yeah.”
The silence stretches, warm, comfortable, and dangerous. I should go. I really should go.
“I should go,” I say aloud, but I don’t move.
“Yeah.” He doesn’t move either. “You probably should.”
“Maisie’s upstairs.”
“She is.”
“And we’re... whatever we are.”
“Whatever we are,” he repeats, a hint of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “What are we, exactly?”
“I have no idea.” I pick up my wine glass and take a long sip. “But I know we shouldn’t be doing what we’re doing with your daughter twenty feet away.”
“Probably not.” He pushes off from the counter, moving closer. “Even though what we’re doing is just drinking wine.”
“Is that all we’re doing?”
“At the moment.”
He’s close now—close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his dark eyes and the slight curve of his lips.
“You’re trouble,” I murmur.
