“I can promise you I do,” I reply smoothly. “You’re twelve years old. It wouldn’t be the first time weirdos online sent inappropriate DMs. I just want to know what kind of accounts are following you, and why they’re interested in your photos.”
Eli groans, rolling his eyes. “Okay, okay. I’ll change my password back.”
I snap my head around to eye him.
“You changed your password?”
“Um...it was a security thing. It prompted me!” he rushes out.
“Uh-huh.”
Real slick. Like I wouldn’t change my password if I was twelve and trying to avoid my overprotective dad supervising my internet fun.
Sighing, I shake my head and go back to pushing eggs around the skillet. “Just text me the new password. If it was a security thing, it probably won’t let you change it back to the old one.”
That earns me a scowl and a stuck-out tongue, barely glimpsed from the corner of my eye. I turn around and secretly grin as I hear him tapping on his phone to text me.
The sound that chimes next definitely isn’t my notification tone, though.
The doorbell.
I’m not expecting company. The very last thing I’m expecting, when I turn around, is to see Felicity Randall waiting outside on the front porch, framed as pretty as a picture in the glass inset of the door.
Oh, hell.
Yes, I’m painfully aware that I’m standing here in pajama pants, shirtless except for a damned apron, probably looking every inch the mess of divorced bachelor man I am. Divorced roughneck bachelor man, with my tattoos out and literal battle scars showing.
Meanwhile, she’s put together like a dream, teasing and svelte in a simple but lovely off-the-shoulder blouse. It glows in a shade of soft blue that brings out the rich blue-violet glow of her eyes.
Her hair tumbles over her bare shoulders in cinnamon ripples.
Her jeans hug her curves and long legs, heeled leather boots giving her an extra inch in height.
A battered leather purse hangs from one arm, her fingers wound lightly around the strap.
An first glance, yeah, she looks like pure vixen sin. Delicate pointed features, heavy-lidded eyes, the low sweep of thick lashes.
Take a closer look, and she’s more like a fawn.
Still delicate, strong, long and slender and all legs, but less sly and more wary, waiting to bolt the second something startles her.
Is that the skillet popping or my blood?
I wonder who hurt this girl. And why?
I’ll never get why people go out of their way to make someone else suffer for no goddamned reason, and I can’t imagine Felicity doing anything to provoke those shitty rumors.
More than anything, I wonder why she’s on my doorstep, watching me through the glass with clear amusement.
Her round full-lipped mouth peaks at the corners and damned near punches me in the dick.
“Uh.” I clear my throat, then raise my voice. “Just a second!”
I’m already turning off the burners and the oven, then fumbling with my apron strings to get them off—but I realize I probably shouldn’t.
At least not in full view of the door.
“Hey, Eli? Can you let her in and grab her some coffee? I’ll be right back.”
“Sure thing.” He’s watching me with a knowing look.
“Thanks!”
I dash into the bedroom, pulling at my apron, and listening to the sounds from the living room. Considering how shy Eli is unless he gets caught up in his photos, I’m surprised to hear how relaxed he sounds greeting her, genuine warmth and excitement in his voice. I already know he’s going to forget to offer her coffee, tea, something to drink.
And I’m right.
In the time it takes me to pull on an undershirt and a clean flannel shirt, button it up, and step back to the common area, he’s already got her at the island. They’re browsing his Instagram account, the two of them with their heads together like co-conspirators.
What gets me, though, is the fact that she’s actually paying attention.
You know how most people are when kids want to show them something.
They’ll humor them, nod, smile, but don’t actually pay attention. Or they’ll say things in that tone that says they’re not even taking it in and just waiting for the kid to shut up and go away.
Not Felicity. Her eyes spark with keen interest.
As I walk toward the living room she’s saying, “...no, I can see why you used the sepia tone here. With the sunlight streaming in, the way the light hits everything makes it glitter, and desaturating a bit makes the room seem kinda ghostly.”
“Yeah!” Eli brightens, looking at her raptly, and I’m starting to think he’s got a little bit of a crush himself. “Like, that’s what I was going for. I think it’s really cool to photograph these bright places and make them look kind of haunted with filter effects.”
Felicity props her elbow on the kitchen island and rests her chin in her palm, grinning at my son. “You know, we used to think Heart’s Edge was haunted. That we had some monster up in the hills, this big beast named Nine. Turns out it was just my friend’s husband, Leo.”
“Dude.” Eli’s eyes widen. “The guy with all the cool scars and tattoos?”
“That’s him.”
“I want to take pictures of him, but Dad won’t let me ask.” He pouts, shoulders sagging.
I start to open my mouth—but Felicity answers first. She rests her hand lightly on Eli’s shoulder, watching him with her gaze warm. “Sometimes people who’ve spent their whole lives feeling sensitive about how they look can feel self-conscious even when people think they look cool. We love Leo, but he’s still getting used to folks seeing him out in the open without being afraid. So your dad’s probably thinking about Leo’s feelings, and I’d bet you wouldn’t want to hurt him either, right?”
Eli’s brows knit together.
“Oh, right. I didn’t think about it like that. I mean...I get it. It’s just like if I have a pimple on photo day.”
“Just like that.” Felicity laughs softly, then blinks, lifting her head and looking at me standing there like a dumbstruck moose in the hallway. She flushes, clearing her throat. “Sorry.”
She has nothing to apologize for.
Except maybe the fact that my heart’s about to blow through my rib cage, watching this woman talk to my kid in such a sweet, reasonable way. Without even trying, she’s helping him work through things he needs to learn as an adult, but that my clumsy ass isn’t always equipped to teach.
The way to some men’s hearts is through their stomachs.
Looks like the way to mine is through my son.
I finally make myself stop gawking at her like a moon-faced moron and flash a smile.
“Hey, no worries. You want some coffee? I told him to ask, but I see you fell down the rabbit hole.”
“I really didn’t mind. Eli’s talented.” She flashes me a smile, while Eli beams at her with stars in his eyes. Her smile fades as she glances into my kitchen at the brewer going steady with a fresh pot. “I’m not drinking coffee if it’s out of that.”
I blink. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Drip is the lowest life form on the coffee hierarchy.” She pushes to her feet, sliding smoothly off the stool in a little undulating twist that pulls her blouse up. Just enough to show a tempting hint of velvety pale skin in the curve of her waist. “I know these cabins come with French presses. I’m the one who helped Ms. Wilma pick them out. So. I’ll drink coffee with you, on the condition that you let me make you better coffee.” She grins. “I even happen to have a case of my special Felicity-branded roast in the trunk of my car.”