“Thank you!” Soph bolts up from the table and grabs Mari’s bowl. “Oh. Are you finished?”
Mari laughs and tucks her spoon in the mostly-empty bowl. “I am, thank you.”
“Cool.” Soph stacks it inside my bowl and grabs the empty breadbasket as she looks at me. “And yes, I finished my homework already.”
“Atta girl.” I tuck my balled-up napkin in the top bowl. “And what do you say to Mari for her advice?”
Mari touches a hand to her chest. “Oh, it’s not necessary to—”
“Thank you, Mari.” Soph grins and carries the dishes to the kitchen.
“You’re welcome, Soph.” Mari’s smile warms her eyes, and I almost forget our earlier awkwardness. The near-miss kiss and the buzzkill of my ex-wife’s photo.
As soon as Soph’s out of earshot, I need to apologize.
First things first, though. I trade a quick round of texts with Olivia’s mother, Jaya, confirming she’s home and open to entertaining an extra twelve-year-old.
Mari excuses herself to wash up, and by the time we’re finished, Soph’s done with the dishes and clutching a brownie from the batch Mari brought.
“Bye.” My girl stretches up on tiptoe to hug me. “Love you.”
“Love you, too, kiddo.” I squeeze her tight, grateful she’s finding friends here. That maybe I made the right choice moving us to Juniper Ridge. “Please be home by eight thirty.”
Soph draws back and grins. “How about nine thirty?”
“How about eight thirty?” I fold my arms over my chest and brace for more bargaining. It’s her new thing, and perfectly normal, according to Mari’s parenting books. “Or not at all.”
“Eight thirty’s good.” Soph shoves the brownie in her mouth and grabs her jacket from the coat rack. “And I know, I know…I’ll keep my phone on.” She rounds the table and stops in front of Mari. “Thanks again.”
Before she can answer, Soph throws her arms around Mari and hugs her. Mari’s eyes flash with surprise as she hugs back and smiles at me over Soph’s shoulder.
“Have fun with your friends,” she says as my daughter lets her go.
“See you!” Soph darts out the door, slamming it behind her. I watch her race across the lawn, ponytail flying as she disappears past the next bank of cabins.
Turning to Mari, I give a hopeful smile. “Tell me I’m not screwing up my kid?”
I mean it as a joke, but Mari must hear the uncertainty in my voice. My fear of being scrutinized by a shrink and found lacking.
Again.
“You’re doing amazing.” She hesitates, then reaches across the table and touches my hand. “Seriously. In case no one’s told you that lately, you’re an excellent father.”
“Thanks.” The lump in my throat makes me feel desperate and dorky, which is definitely not how I imagined kicking off alone-time with Mari.
Because yeah, I’ve been thinking about it. All through dinner, I wondered what it might be like to score a stolen hour alone with her. Would we pick up where we left off with that kiss?
Mari clears her throat and stands up. “I should get home. Maybe try calling Susan again.”
“Susan?”
“Dr. Susan Pantoja. My professional mentor.” She bites her lip, and I wonder what’s going through her mind. “I left a message earlier.”
“Ah.” I resist the urge to ask questions. If she wants to tell me why it’s so urgent to reach Susan, she will. “Isn’t it getting late on the east coast?”
Her grip tightens on the back of the chair. As her eyes search mine, her cheeks flush with color. “I suppose so,” she says slowly. “Susan’s usually good about returning calls.”
Does she want me to talk her into staying, or give her an excuse to go? I suck at reading minds. If I knew how, I’d still be married.
Thinking of Gabby sends a sour blast of memory through me. Oddly enough, I don’t feel regret. Not anymore, which is new. I guess that’s progress?
“Tell you what.” I stand up and push in my chair. “How about you stick around for an after-dinner drink. We can talk about Soph or the show or whatever you feel like discussing.”
Her brow furrows as she considers the offer. “I would like to know more about how you and Soph came to be here. It’s not that common for a father to have sole custody when his wife is still living.”
“Ex-wife.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to, so I soften it up and try again. “That is a long and twisted story, which I’d be happy to share with you over a raspberry Kolsch. Or coconut porter. Or—”
“Wine!” Mari darts to the kitchen and grabs the unopened bottle off the counter. “I forgot I brought this. I meant to open it for dinner.”
“Sure, that works.” I edge past her and slip a corkscrew out of the drawer by the fridge. My fingers brush hers as I hand it over, and I try not to read anything into the way her eyes flash. “What do you need?”
She blinks. “I—what?”
“To drink out of.” God, she must think I’m an idiot. “I have stemless or stemmed wine glasses. Not that I drink wine, but guests have both to choose from.”
Not that I have guests, either, but she doesn’t need to know I’m a loser who hasn’t embraced the Juniper Ridge social scene.
“Whichever glass is easier to wash,” she says. “Which are you having?”
I point to a pint glass. “Neither. I’m strictly a beer guy.”
Another memory ripples through me. Gabby’s voice, bitter and mocking.
“Just once, I wish you’d get out of your comfort zone and try something new…”
“Actually, wait.” I look at Mari, then reach past her to grab two stemmed glasses and a second pint glass. “I’ll make you a deal. You share your wine, I’ll share my beer, and we’ll both share random bits of trivia about ourselves.”
She gives me a curious look. “Like some sort of drinking game?”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but sure.” Reaching into the fridge, I pluck out three small aluminum cans. “The canning equipment we’ve got here kicks ass, by the way.”
“Oh? I know Gabe and Coop did a ton of research.”
“They nailed it. I always wanted an in-house system to do these little eight-ounce nip cans one at a time. Don’t worry,” I add when I catch her eyeing me. “We’re not drinking all of this. I just want some samples. And I promise you won’t hurt my feelings if you don’t like any of it.”
“Deal.” Mari seems more relaxed as she twists the cork from the bottle and pours a few ounces of red wine into two stemmed glasses. Her hands are delicate and confident, and I wonder how her fingers would feel skimming my chest.
Stop thinking about that.
“Do you have a tray we can use to carry this?” She nods toward the living room. “I thought maybe we could get comfortable in there.”
I try not to read anything into that. She’s just being practical, and shrinks love couches, right?
“Good call.” I slip a wooden tray from the space between the fridge and wall, struck by the jolt of intersecting worlds. I bought this six years ago to make breakfasts in bed for Gabby, a quest to be more thoughtful and spontaneous. We ended up using it for movie nights with Soph.