Page 22

Hmm …

Killian

Don’t “hmm” me.

Ronan

Awfully defensive, aren’t you, Kill?

It’s almost the end of my first week in Clover Pines, and my time staying with Scarlett and the kids has flown by. I was right; a week would never have been enough. Scarlett is still hesitant to let me help with things like cooking or cleaning, but she doesn’t mind me watching the kids, and I’ve been fixing things up around the house as much as I can—the dripping kitchen tap, the wobbly handle on the coat closet door, the crooked shelf in the bathroom. Little things, which she hopefully won’t be pissed off about when she notices.

Today, she took a last-minute shift at the diner when someone called in sick. James wasn’t in pre-school, so we picked up Caitlin together and settled in at home. Scarlett promised to bring dinner home from the diner so I wouldn’t have to worry about cooking or doing dishes, but she didn’t explicitly say I couldn’t clean the kitchen. Once I’ve helped Caitlin with her homework, the kids plant themselves in front of the TV to watch some children’s art TV show and draw along.

I have a pretty small apartment back in Dublin—I don’t need much space, and the city is expensive—but I’ve always enjoyed cleaning. It helps me switch off, and though I can’t totally switch off, considering I’m looking after two small children, it still soothes me to scrub the stovetop until it’s gleaming.

I’m hanging the rubber gloves over the tap to dry when Caitlin and James burst into the kitchen, clutching their sketch pads. They lay them out on the table to show me their masterpieces—the sunflowers are vaguely misshapen, but I can tell what they are, and that’s more than I could do as a kid. It’s probably more than I can do now.

I whistle, holding my hands up for high fives. “Check you two out. Picassos in the making.”

“Can we put them on the fridge?” Caitlin asks, and I nod, hanging them side by side.

“I’m hungry. Can we have a snack before dinner?”

I don’t see why not. The only rule Scarlett has around food is that they need to try everything on their plates once, and they’re not allowed cheese right before bed, because she swears it gives them nightmares.

“Sure. Let’s see what we’ve got to work with.”

I open the fridge carefully, trying not to dislodge any of the artwork. Scarlett’s fridge is a gallery. Every inch is covered in paper, from aged scribbles when the kids were really young, to their latest flowers. This is what a family fridge should look like.

Inside … not so much. Other than the odd condiment and an almost finished bag of milk, the fridge is empty. I open the cabinets, finding much the same. The kitchen is bare.

I usually get breakfast from the diner when I drop Scarlett off, and lunch from one of the cafés in town. Scarlett never lets me cook dinner, so I haven’t had any reason to poke around in here. Admittedly, I’ve been here for almost a week, and we haven’t gone grocery shopping. I just didn’t think about it.

I glance at the clock over the kitchen door. Scarlett gets off work in an hour and a half, and I was planning on driving over to pick her up anyway …

“What do you say we head over to the diner to eat and surprise your mom?” I ask, and Caitlin’s and James’s little faces light up at the mention of seeing their mom. They love her so loudly, and it might just be my favorite thing about them.

It’s a short drive to the diner, and I can see Scarlett through the window as I park outside. She’s wiping down a table, bopping her head—probably to one of the Christmas songs she’s been complaining about after every shift. Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail that bounces with every sway of her head. It’s mesmerizing.

Like she can sense my gaze, she looks up, going still at the sight of my car through the window.

Shit. She probably thinks there’s something wrong.

I rush to get the kids out of the car—no easy feat when James brought seemingly the entire cast of Frozen in plushy form—and by the time we make it through the diner door, Scarlett is waiting by the host stand.

Her wary expression melts into relief when she gets her eyes on the kids and realizes they’re okay. They run to her, wrapping their arms around her legs.

“Sorry. I should’ve texted you that we were coming,” I tell her, as she crouches down to hug them both properly.

She doesn’t look upset when she looks up at me. “It’s okay. This is a nice surprise.”

“We wanted to see you!” Caitlin says, and a wide smile stretches over Scarlett’s face.

“Also, we wanted a snack,” James adds.

She snorts. “There it is.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” I say, as she grabs a couple of menus and leads us to the same booth in the corner where we sat on the day I arrived. “I figured the timing worked out well: early dinner for the kids, and then we can drive you home.”