“That whole thing was shitty, absolutely. But it’s been four years. Not all guys are douchecanoes. Case in point, the gorgeous hunk of a firefighter next door.”
If all guys were like Caleb, maybe she’d have a different opinion on the matter. Dependable, trustworthy, supportive. Definite romance hero fodder.
“Yes, Caleb is a sweetheart, but we’re just friends.”
Paisley waggled her eyebrows. “Don’t have to be.”
The absurdity of that idea had her barking a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s too young for me.”
“Is he closer in age to you than Fiona?”
“Barely.” Eight years younger was hardly close. For God’s sake, he’d been in elementary school when she’d graduated high school.
“Barely is good enough. He is hot.”
A fact which Emerson spent a great deal of energy and effort trying to ignore. Not easy with his propensity to run without a shirt. But she’d found a happy medium of being able to objectively appreciate his…attributes…without objectifying him. Most of the time.
“I do have eyes. That doesn’t change the fact that I am not going to mack on my much younger neighbor. I value his friendship too much. It would make things super weird between us.” She couldn’t stand the thought of losing him as a friend, and she wouldn’t do anything to upset his relationship with Fiona.
“I’m just sayin’,” Paisley waved her longneck for emphasis, “if I were single and lived next door to that, I’d be doing something about it.”
Paisley loved men. Loved dating. She considered her lengthy list of past relationships research for her romance novels. For Emerson, the very idea of serial dating, enjoying men for as long as she felt like before moving on to the next, sounded exhausting. She hadn’t had that much to put into one guy before Fiona. She sure didn’t have the energy now.
“I’m not you.” But now that Paisley had put the image into her head, Emerson couldn’t quite stop herself from imagining that slow, sexy grin of Caleb’s—the one he pulled out for the firefighter calendar—aimed at her. Heat pooled in her cheeks…and lower.
She took a long pull of cider, hoping to cool off. “I’m not looking for a guy, right now. I’m looking for myself.”
Paisley lost the teasing edge to her smile, shifting to concern. “What do you mean?”
“It’s part of being a parent. I came to it late in the game and in one of the most brutal ways possible. There was no guidebook or training for how to suddenly be the mom of a teenager. I’ve poured everything into making sure Fiona was okay—or as okay as she could be.”
“You’ve been an absolute rockstar of a parent under incredibly challenging circumstances. I know you gave up a lot.”
Emerson shook her head. “I don’t know that I did. I try to remember what I wanted out of life before her, and I just…can’t.” In her mind, life was marked by that stark dividing line—Before The Accident and After The Accident. Before was incredibly fuzzy these days. “I don’t regret it, and I don’t resent her for it. God knows, she didn’t ask for this either. But I don’t remember who I am apart from her now. And I’ve only had her for four years. I can’t imagine what moms feel when they’ve raised a child from birth.”
“We have friends with kids. You and I both know how hard they have to work to maintain a sense of self outside the role of Mom. Maybe you slid over the line there because of the extenuating circumstances. But now is absolutely the time to fix that. Figure out who you are as a woman, not just a parent. I just think that a guy to remind you that you are attractive and vibrant and interesting would help with that.”
And they were back to this again.
Paisley meant well. Emerson knew that. But the idea of having to be attractive and vibrant and interesting felt so insurmountably exhausting, she just couldn’t think about it yet. Maybe after she’d had some time to adjust to her empty nest.
“Can we talk about something else?”
After another long, searching look, Paisley let the subject drop. “Fine. Let’s talk about work. I should have the final edits done and a script ready for you next week. Are we still on for the first of the month?”
After his forty-eight-hour shift turned into more like sixty, Caleb was dreaming of a shower, a beer—maybe simultaneously—and eight straight on a horizontal surface. But he wanted to check in on Emerson first and find out how move-in day went. Was she enjoying the solitude like she thought she would? Or was the whole thing hitting her harder than she expected?
After indulging in that beer in the shower and scraping off what felt like four layers of soot and grime, he’d picked up her favorite ice cream and wine on the way home. Without even stopping at his own house, he crossed the span of lawn to Emerson’s. The ON AIR sign she used to notify visitors and delivery personnel that she was in the recording booth and not to ring the bell was unlit, so he circled around the back to knock.
She didn’t answer. Maybe she wasn’t home. Or maybe she was indulging in a long soak in the tub. His brain had a quick little fantasy about bubbles and slick skin and a bathtub big enough for two before he reeled it back in. He tested the knob. Unlocked. Probably home, then. After a moment’s hesitation he decided to slip into the kitchen, shove the ice cream in the freezer and leave the wine on the counter with a quick note.
The moment he opened the door, he heard the crying. The exhaustion faded as he bolted toward the living room with all the situational readiness of a five-alarm fire. Emerson lay on the sofa, curled into a ball, sobbing. Dozens of wadded tissues surrounded her, and his brain clicked through, assessing. No blood. No sign of physical trauma.
“Emerson.”
She shrieked, bolting upright at the sight of him.
“Sorry!” Lifting his hands in apology, he crouched in front of her. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head and slumped again, grabbing another tissue to blow her nose.
Caleb let out a slow, controlled exhale, thinking he might need some of the wine himself to counteract the adrenaline dump. Scrubbing both hands over his still damp hair, he spotted the photo album that had slipped to the floor. Gently, he picked it up. He expected shots of Emerson and Fiona, but it was a different smiling face with Fiona’s eyes. Her mom, Micah?
“She should have been here for this,” Emerson rasped. “She would have been so proud.”
A fresh spate of tears spilled over, and she dropped her face into her hands.
Heart twisting, Caleb set the album aside and sank down beside her on the sofa, reaching to pull her in. He didn’t know if she’d let him. Physical affection wasn’t something they did. But after only a moment’s hesitation, she melted into him, the same way she had that night at the hospital. She wasn’t silent now. Here was the storm he’d expected all those years ago. He wasn’t under any delusion that she hadn’t grieved the loss of her friend, but he wondered if some of this had been held off all this time because her focus was always forward, always on Fiona. It sounded like something Emerson would do.
She felt so small and fragile, shaking in his arms. So unlike the woman who rolled up her sleeves and waded in to do what needed doing. When was the last time she’d let herself just break down? Had she at all? Saying nothing, he held on, stroking her hair and down her spine, over and over, until the tears slowed and her body went limp with exhaustion.