Page 55

Landon blows out a breath. He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s considering what to say next, brushing pine needles from the bench. “You can’t keep doing this. It’s been almost nine years since you met Dom, and you’re still beating yourself up. Do I think you were a little stupid for hooking up with someone so much older when you were eighteen? Sure. But you were eighteen. Everyone’s a little stupid at eighteen. And really, what’s the difference if you’d hooked up with someone the same age as you? If anything, they’d be less likely to stick around.”

“But—”

“No. No buts. You’re not the first person to get knocked up at eighteen, and you won’t be the last. You’ve spent every day since going above and beyond to be the best mom you can be. Dom should’ve known better than to show any interest in someone younger than his daughter. He should’ve known better than to cheat on his wife and abandon his kids. He was almost fifty years old. He did know better, but he did it anyway, and you’re angry at yourself?”

“I’m angry at him, too.” I sound more defeated than defensive. There’s no point in trying to rebut anything Landon says; he’s right.

“But you’re angrier at yourself,” he points out. “Look, the kids are young enough right now that you can hide it from them, but if you don’t deal with this self-loathing you have, if you don’t make time for yourself again, they’re going to notice it when they get older, and they’re going to blame themselves.”

That’s the last thing I want. But Landon’s not wrong. The kids are already so observant, and just like they figured out Killian’s related to them, it’s only a matter of time before they see through my mask.

“I know you’re right,” I admit, rubbing my face. “But I don’t know where I’m supposed to find time for me when I’m already struggling.”

“That’s where we come in. Something’s got to give, Scar. You can’t physically do it all. Let me take the kids more—Mom, Dad, and Pipes, too. You know we love having them, and they love being here. And please, for the love of god, let us help out financially. I’m not asking you to let us pay your bills or anything, but we can at least buy the kids stuff they need or pay for extracurriculars. You have to learn to let people help.”

“I know. And I’m trying. I went to the bar, didn’t I? And I’ve stopped trying to get Killian to let me pay him back when he buys groceries.” Admittedly, I kind of had to. I couldn’t pay him back if I wanted to. The man is obsessed with the grocery store—I swear he’s there every day, picking up a treat for me and the kids, or something special for dinner.

Landon hums. “That’s a good start. But I think after Christmas, we should make a real plan for how we can all help out a little more, and you should actually let us do it.”

I may not want to, but I recognize I need to. So I nod, and Landon breathes a visible sigh of relief.

“So. Killian. What’s going on there?”

Jesus. Haven’t I bared my heart enough? “Honestly? I’m not sure. But it’s good. I think. He loves the kids, and they love him back.”

“And you?” Landon asks.

I shrug. “I like him. A lot. But he’s only been here for two and a half weeks, and we have a lot of shit to work out before I even think about more than that.” He raises an eyebrow. “What is that look you’re giving me?”

Landon holds up his hands. “I’m just saying: when you know, you know. You know?” He isn’t usually one for cryptic statements. Landon has always been blunt with me, and he’s never once offered any kind of romantic advice. Which makes sense, considering, to my knowledge, he’s never been in a relationship.

“No. I don’t know. How the hell do you know?”

“Just do. And for what it’s worth, Mom and Dad like Killian. And I do too. Just don’t tell him that—I have to keep him on his toes.”

It’s worth a hell of a lot, actually. The kids, Piper, my parents, Landon—they all like Killian.

Of course, none of that makes his family situation less complicated. And that’s a bridge we’re going to have to cross, whether we want to or not.

25

Killian

I pop the hood and rub my hands together, blowing warm air on them as I peer into Scarlett’s car. It hasn’t been easy, finding time to work on it without her or the kids around. Her, because I know she’d bend over backward trying to convince me not to help; the kids, because I know they’d want to help, and that doesn’t sound safe.

Scarlett’s suspicion that the battery was dead was right. It also looked like her oil and air filter hadn’t been changed in years; she had a headlight out, and her back tires were so bald, I don’t think she could have safely made it out of the driveway even if the car had started. I’m not an expert, but I have a lot of aunts and uncles, most of whom work with their hands in some capacity, and I’ve picked up a lot of helpful skills over the years. My grandpa, James’s namesake, owned a construction company until he retired, but he still messes around in his workshop, building and fixing things. Including vintage cars. Scarlett’s 2012 Honda is hardly vintage, even if it’s in worse shape than some of the cars I’ve worked on with my grandpa, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.

Her reaction when she finds out I fixed her car without asking, on the other hand? We’ll see. I’m just hoping she won’t be pissed. Scarlett has gotten a lot better at letting me help out—probably because I’ve started just doing it without asking—but I can tell it’s still hard for her. She’s trying, though, and not just with me. She and Landon had a heart-to-heart about her letting people help more, and I can tell it sank in for two reasons: one, she actually told me about it, last night, when the kids were asleep and we were snuggled in her bed. Just cuddling for a while, since the kids were home. I still went to James’s room to sleep, in case they woke up, but it was nice.

And two, Landon’s keeping the kids overnight tonight for no reason other than to spend time with them. He picked them up from school and pre-school, and he’s taking them to an arcade a couple of towns away. Progress.

I finish filling Scarlett’s washer fluid and close the hood. A glance at my phone tells me I have just enough time to wash up before picking her up from work. If she’s not too pissed at me for fixing her car, I’m hoping she might let me take her out for dinner, or at least pick something up, bring it home, and pamper her a little. Between letting me in on Saturday night and opening up to her brother yesterday, she’s taken some big steps over the past few days, and I want to take care of her.

I drive her car to the diner, and it handles the icy roads like a dream. The closer we get to Christmas, the more Clover Pines is like something out of a movie. Christmas lights glisten everywhere I look, quiet Christmas music plays in every store—except the diner, where Scarlett insists it’s anything but quiet—and everything smells like fresh pine, cinnamon, and ginger. In a lot of ways, it’s similar to the Christmases I experienced growing up, but my hometown of Bray is coastal, and our winters are more wet and windy than snowy wonderlands.

Everything here just feels a little softer. It’s easy to imagine myself settling down here. Clover Pines is starting to feel like home—the town, and the people.

I pull up outside the diner and watch through the glass door as Scarlett clocks me. Or rather, clocks the car. Her eyes widen, and she pushes open the door, speeding toward me. I get out of the car and lean against the door. Scarlett stares open-mouthed.