She hands me Cara’s bunny. “Call Brynn. Maybe she’s free.” Watching me from the doorway as I lay Cara in her bed, Mom tries to pretend like she’s not dying of curiosity. So not working. “Er… who did you say you’re having dinner with?”
I tuck Cara under her nap blanket with the stuffed toy. “I didn’t. It’s Brooke.”
Mom’s face falls. “Oh.”
I can’t help but laugh as soon as we’re out of the room. “Come on, Mom. You haven’t even seen her in what, two years?”
She harrumphs. “Has she made positive changes in her life since then? Started therapy? Gained some maturity or had a personality adjustment?”
Sighing, I tap out a text to Brynn to see if she can watch Cara. “Mom—try to remember that you’re a professional therapist.”
She takes my arm, a tactile connection she’s always used when she wants to make sure I’m listening. “I’m also a mother, and I can’t help wanting what’s best for my children.”
I frown down at her, knowing exactly what she’s implying. “Mom, I’m not dating her.”
One of her eyebrows crooks up in the expression we share.
“I’m seeing Emma now. I could have sworn Cassie would spill the details of that.” When we get to my room, I start reorganizing the mess of books, journals and paper on my desk and bed as she leans on my door frame.
“Oh, she did. I was just waiting to see if you’d tell me about her.” I crook an eyebrow back at her and she sighs. “Cassie liked Emma quite a bit.” A smug smile creeps across my face, and then she adds, “But watch out for Brooke. I think she has an agenda, whether you see it or not.”
I’m trying really hard not to roll my eyes like a ten-year-old girl. She makes it sound like I’m incapable of seeing Brooke in a realistic light. “Mom, I know you think I’m awesome, but not every girl I meet wants me. Plus, I’ve known Brooke for four years. Don’t you think I’d have seen some evidence of scheming if it was there?” I never told her about that drunken mistake of a kiss, of course, and I don’t plan to.
“Are you sure you haven’t?” She inclines her head as though she knows I’m withholding.
“I’m sure,” I say, in the interest of placating her.
She sighs, walking up to me. “It’s your life, honey.” Frowning again, she pushes the hair off my face, something she’s been doing to me for about a dozen years now. She likes it styled short, but has always deferred to whatever style I prefer—usually a little shaggy, unless I’m required to cut it for a film role. Cupping my chin, she stares up into my eyes. “Just don’t make me say I told you so, because you know I can’t resist saying it.”
I shake my head and smile. “Duly warned, Mom.”
*** *** ***
Brooke
Graham: Can’t do dinner tonight. No babysitter. I’m sorry.
A million things pound through my brain, starting with Goddammit. And then I recognize what an opportunity this is. I can’t freak out at a kid-related set-back or I might as well give up now. I have Rowena all set to go. If Cara tags along, we’ll look like a charming little family. The speculations could be even better than photos of us alone.
And Graham’s secret would be outed—which will happen as soon as he gets the slightest bit more well-known, but doesn’t need to be tonight. Tonight is about how level-headed I can be about his daddy obligations. Rowena will just have to work a little harder for her photos.
Brooke: Why don’t I come over? We can order in, and I can help with Cara so you can get back to studying sooner.
Graham: That would be cool. You sure?
Brooke: Absolutely.
***
“Hey you.” I smile up at him when he answers the door.
His eyes are warm and his smile is genuine, as always. He pulls the door wide, saying, “Hey, Brooke, long time no see.” Such an adorable nerd.
He probably napped earlier in his jeans and slightly rumpled navy v-neck t-shirt. That one little strand in front sticks up from his disheveled mop of hair. Smiling, I reach up and make it blend with the rest. I’m wearing heels, but he’s still inches taller, even barefoot. He looks good enough to eat, and my stomach flutters when I note his eyes scanning me head to toe. These jeans fit me like a second skin, and the silk top is fluid enough to flash curves and cle**age without explicitly doing either.
“I’m sorry we’re staying in,” he says. I move past him into the foyer, and he shuts the front door and leads the way across the slate flooring. “I’m sure you had hopes of showing off that outfit.” He takes my bag and light scarf, our fingers brushing—sending a zap all the way to my toes. When he turns to hang them on a brass hook in the entryway, I draw in a deep, silent breath.
“What, this? You know me, Graham—heels and silk are comfort clothes.” I haven’t been in this house in two years, but it hasn’t changed. His family is fond of cozy décor, a warm color palette and natural elements. Pretty much the direct opposite design of my place. This setting suits Graham, though—a fact I’ll keep in mind while apartment hunting tomorrow. I want him to feel at home when he’s there.
Without warning, Cara pops up at my feet and stares up at me, all huge dark eyes. I know from posing the question years ago that his family insisted on a paternity test when she was born, but those eyes are unmistakably Graham’s. Her strawberry blonde hair must be from her mother. It’s in need of a trim. And a flatiron.