3. Caroline
CAROLINE
The man—the one whose name I realize I never even asked—slaps his wide and veiny hands on his knees, and then stands up quickly. He tosses out a wink like it’s nothing, closing a curtain over the window into another world, and then he turns, walking away from me.
My heart stutters painfully in my chest. A voice, thin and urgent, whispers from somewhere deep inside me, You’re letting something life-altering walk away.
It’s unlike me— wildly unlike the me I’ve cultivated over four years—but before I can think better of it, I blurt, “Wait!” The word rips out of my throat like a rope thrown across a chasm. A lifeline.
Heads turn. The low murmur of the café hushes into curious silence. Heat floods my face as patrons glance at me, some smiling indulgently, others frowning at the interruption.
Ignoring them, I gather my purse and almost trip over my own feet as I half walk, half run after him. My sneakers squeak against the polished floor, and I wince at the noise. I sound as awkward as I feel, like an interruption.
He turns, and a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as his eyes follow me toward him. “That was quite the show,” he says when I reach him, his voice low and teasing.
I’m close to him now. Closer than I should be, maybe. Finding my eyes almost level with his chest, I tilt my head back to look at him. Thick muscles strain beneath the fabric of his Henley shirt. I see something in his jaw tick when he looks at me.
He bends his neck to meet my gaze, and my breath catches. His blue eyes, the blue gray of a sky before a storm, bore into me with unflinching interest.
He smells like cloves and old wood, and something else…something coppery and electric that makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Danger and warmth, wrapped up together.
I fumble in my purse, searching desperately for something—anything—to write on. Receipts, gum wrappers, crumpled tissues, anything…but all I can find are baby wipes, goldfish, the fixings of motherhood. I groan in frustration, drawing a chuckle from him that rumbles low in his chest.
Without thinking, I grab the corner of my worn paperback and tear a piece from a blank page in the back.
I scrawl my number down hastily, the pen ink bleeding slightly through the paper, and thrust it at him like an offering.
“Here,” I say, casting a quick glance back toward my kids, my tether to reality. “Ask me out for real, then.”
I turn sharply on my heel, mortified by my own boldness. Every nerve in my body hums with adrenaline. What the hell am I doing?
Behind me, I hear his voice, clear and sure. “And who am I asking out?”
Laughter bubbles from a few nearby tables. I risk a glance back.
He’s standing there, holding the tiny slip of paper between his fingers like it’s some sacred thing, his eyes locked on mine. His reddish-brown curls fall messily over his forehead, softening the strong angles of his face.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. “Caroline,” I say, voice trembling more than I want it to.
A wide smile spreads across his face, reaching all the way to his eyes. “Caroline,” he repeats, savoring it. “I’m Paul.”
“I hope to see you again, Paul,” I manage, trying to keep my knees from buckling under me.
“Oh, you will,” he calls after me, lifting the paper dramatically and fanning himself with it like an old-timey lady in a saloon.
I can’t help it. A bright, unexpected laugh bursts from me, the sound startlingly alive. For the first time in what feels like years, I’m not just surviving—I’m living.
I make my way back to Isaac and Joshua, who are still mercifully absorbed in their Lego and train world. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might punch a hole through my ribs.
Paul. Paul. God, even his name is good.
There’s something about him, something whimsical and sharp and undeniable.
He’s funny in a way that doesn’t feel forced.
Charming without being smarmy. And when he looked at me, he really looked at me.
It felt like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just another exhausted mom with peanut butter stains on her shirt.
Maybe I’m not just that. Maybe I’m someone else’s beginning.
Hell, maybe I’m someone else’s whole story.
A slow ache builds between my thighs, startling me. It’s been so long since I felt that heat inside me. Since I felt wanted and I wanted back. Not since the kids.
Not since that night at the club.
I shiver, an involuntary tremor that has nothing to do with the café’s faulty air conditioning. The memory creeps up unbidden—tied wrists, trembling legs, the raw excitement of giving in, of not knowing if I’d fall or fly.
That night changed everything. That night made me run. But for a few blinding hours, it had also made me feel.
Paul reminds me of that feeling. Of standing on the edge of something dangerous and delicious. Of throwing yourself into the unknown, consequences be damned.
There’s something familiar about him. Like a half-remembered dream, just out of reach.
Déjà vu, I think absently, though the term feels too small for the weight of it.
Maybe I knew him once. Maybe I dreamed him into existence. Or maybe, just maybe, fate is offering me a second chance.
Reality creeps in, tying me down. The boys. My quiet life. My rules.
You can’t afford to mess this up. You can’t afford to be reckless again.
Still, the wicked part of me, the part I buried under laundry piles and carpool schedules, stirs to life. Maybe I can borrow a few tricks from my clubbing days. Maybe I can let myself have something. Someone.
The image flashes in my mind before I can stop it. Paul, rough and wild, bending me over the edge of my bed, his hands digging into my hips as he pounds into me without mercy. My core clenches at the thought, a desperate, traitorous throb.
I snap myself back to reality, cheeks flaming. Get to know the man first, Caroline. Maybe try a coffee before getting railed against your headboard.
Still, a slow smile tugs at my lips as I watch Paul exit the café, whistling to himself, the torn corner of my book tucked carefully into his pocket like a promise.
What would this Caroline do? Would she wait?