She’s a mom.
Of course she does.
“Miss Vow-atine made fiya, Gwamma!” James says on a giggle. “It was big fiya!”
“Steady with the stick, James,” she replies softly.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
She shoots me a guilty smile. “Oh, don’t thank me until you know I let you set the first one on fire. Grandmas need to feel useful sometimes too.”
Her blunt confession surprises a laugh out of me. “And now I see where he gets it,” I muse.
“Who? What?”
“Someone’s mischievous side.”
“Tripp? He’s the responsible one. Is he misbehaving at work?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t have time to misbehave,” the man himself replies. “Someone keeps putting too many tasks on my desk without a game plan beyond you sort it all out.”
“Trial by fire.”
“Yes, but you didn’t have to do it to the marshmallow too.”
I look at his mom.
She’s struggling not to smile.
And it’s impossible not to smile too.
These people have known grief. They’ve known loss. They’ve probably known betrayal, because it’s a rare person in the spotlight who hasn’t.
And they’re moving on with their lives. Leaning on each other and letting new people in, and not holding themselves back because of fear.
I know why I was invited tonight. I know they want me to know my family’s team would be in good hands.
But I don’t think they know just how much watching them in all their familyness could sneak under my skin.
And not in the bad way.
“Better check that marshmallow,” Tripp’s mom says.
And for a split second, I’m almost positive she knows she’s talking about my heart.
15
Tripp
As expected, my mom insists I put Emma and James to bed at her house down the street from the Ryders when she’s ready to go, which means I have an entire night to myself to catch up on sleep.
Letting my kids stay with my mom is different from dropping them with my in-laws. They’re fifteen minutes away instead of several hours. I’ve done it more often. Not regularly, but more often. She also humors my hypochondria more than I’m willing to admit to anyone that I need.
Davis and the Rivers brothers invite me to join them at a club downtown, but I decline, to no one’s surprise, and head home. It’s been a long week in dad-land, along with a long week in the new job, and I know I’m not even the one putting in the most hours. Lila’s building access card says she’s been in early, and she’s come back late a few nights.
My house is trashed—if it’s not baby dolls, unicorns, and trucks I’m tripping over in the living room, it’s bath toys, coloring books, and balls strewn through the hallway outside the bathroom upstairs.
I ignore all of it—which isn’t easy, for the record—and head to the kitchen.
The kitchen is why I bought this house in Copper Valley’s Heartwood Valley district.
Countertops for miles. Viking range. Built-in subzero fridge. Well-lit, especially over the island. Plenty of cabinets for Emma to hide in, though when we moved in, it was James who liked to sneak into the pantry with his trucks and blanket.
After the kitchen, it was the yard that sold me.
The rest of the Tudor mansion needed some work, and it’s honestly too much space for just the three of us, but we have room for Jessie’s parents to visit comfortably. I’ve taken over hosting the holidays, and there’s even a full apartment taking up half the walk-out basement for a live-in nanny if I ever decide that’s what’s right for my kids.
And if I can find one that satisfies my requirements.
Not saying I got myself fired from using a specific nanny agency this week after I rejected one for not being able to park straight on the street, but I’m not saying I didn’t either.
I know I need to relax, because I can’t keep going at this pace. Mom’s retired and she’s earned her time off. I can’t ask her to be my kids’ full-time nanny now too. Not that my search is proving easy.
Apparently I have ridiculous standards. And trust issues. A touch of hypochondria. Possibly attachment issues too, which is difficult when I can’t actually get all of my work done when I bring my kids to the office.
While I mix butter and sugar and eggs and vanilla and measure out flour, salt, and baking soda, jazz music playing louder than it would if my kids were home, my mind’s wandering from everything from Lila to my kids to the house to the to-do list on my desk at Fireballs headquarters.
But mostly, my mind keeps circling back to Lila and the easy way she fit in with my family tonight.
How easy it would be to stop fighting and give in to the attraction.
I’m just not sure I’m ready.
Logically, I know losing Jessie to the flu was a freak thing. That it won’t happen a second time if—when—I get involved with a woman again.
Emotionally, though, I’m a bit of a shit show. And that memory permanently etched into my brain of James crawling onto Lila’s lap and asking her to roast marshmallows with him isn’t helping.
Nor is the image of her pulling quarters out of his ears.
Mixing cookie dough usually does the trick to put me back on even ground.
It’s reliable. Consistent. Fluffy. Happy.
And not working tonight.
My phone dings with an alert from my home security company.
There’s a car parked outside my house.
A rental car.
Registered to one Ms. Lila Valentine.
My pulse kicks up, and my grip on the cookie dough spoon tightens.
I could text back and ask them to get someone out here to request she leave.
I could step outside myself and give her directions back to her hotel.
Or I can go invite her in for wine and cookies.
I wipe my hands off and pull up my text messages, and I start a new conversation.
Tripp: LA, New York, or Copenhagen?
Levi: New York
Cash: Copenhagen
Beck: New York
Davis: I fucking hate this game. I can never remember which one’s marry, fuck, or kill. We’re talking about Lila, right? Dude, if you’re at her hotel room, just fuck her and get it out of your system.
Levi: That’s New York.
Cash: Wait. New York is fuck her? So what’s Copenhagen? Is that one kill? That’s where our bus accidentally ran over the squirrel and we had to pull over for the funeral, isn’t it? Shit. I get it confused with LA since we had that incident with that taxidermied ferret in LA.
Levi: If you got Copenhagen and LA confused, does that mean you just voted for Tripp to marry Lila?
Davis: Cash. Dude. How do you forget that YOU WERE THE ONE WHO GOT MARRIED IN LA?
Levi: Better question is HOW DO YOU GET NEW YORK AND LA CONFUSED WHEN YOU’RE THE ONE WHO REMEMBERS CASH’S WEDDING BETTER THAN HE DOES?
Beck: Sarah votes New York too. Nobody ever tell her why it’s New York, okay?
Levi: Back off, Romeo. It was my fling in New York that got it called New York.