Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Alicia
I spot Christine at a back corner table in Maman. The cozy café is packed with the Sunday morning brunch crowd, and I weave through patrons lined up for pastries.
“Ordered us our usual,” Christine says as I’m unwinding my scarf. She looks past me. “I thought you said you have security.”
“I do.” I glance over my shoulder. “But I slipped out.”
“You gave your bodyguard the slip?” Christine’s eyebrows climb. “That’s very Jason Bourne of you.”
“He couldn’t exactly stand in here without looking conspicuous. Besides, what was he going to do—lurk outside in the rain like a stalker?”
“If he’s hot, I’d allow it.” She raises her champagne glass. “Here’s to rainy day brunch and questionable life choices.”
We clink glasses, and I let the bubbles settle my nerves. We’ve been doing this since the first weekend after my divorce—that first Sunday when the house felt too quiet and I’d questioned every decision that led me there.
“How are you holding up?” Christine asks, her voice dropping the playful edge.
“I’m good.”
“Alicia.” She gives me the look—the one that says she’s known me too long for bullshit.
“I am,” I insist. “Mostly.”
“You were close to Matthew.”
“Not that close.” The words come too quickly, too defensive. “You worked with him too.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, noting that deflection. “Elena’s taking it hard.”
I close my eyes, picturing Elena—his wife. Their kids, who must be in high school now. My heart clenches—that sharp, cold ache you get when you’ve inhaled winter air too fast.
“Are you in touch with her?”
“No. I haven’t seen her since one of those holiday parties years ago.” Christine fidgets with her glass. “I bought a condolence card. Can’t decide if reaching out would be supportive or weird.”
“Let me know what you decide. I’ll send flowers.”
“Britney Calloway said the kids are worried about her. Seventeen and fifteen.”
“God.” The word escapes before I can stop it. “Those are brutal ages to lose your father.”
I would know.
Christine’s hand covers mine briefly. “Hey. Enough heavy stuff. Tell me about the bodyguard situation. Is he hot? Please tell me there’s at least one silver lining to this nightmare.”
I suppress a laugh. “There are two of them, actually—”
“Two?” Her face lights up. “Even better! Tell me everything. Better yet, show me photos.”
“I did not take photos of my security detail.”
“Criminal oversight. Are they hot?”
“Actually...yes. Very.”
Christine leans forward like I’ve just revealed state secrets. “Define ‘very.’”
“Too young for us.”
“Who made you the age police? How young?”
“The one living in my house is thirty-one.”
“Thirty-one is not too young. Thirty-one is perfect.” She waves her mimosa for emphasis. “You’re forty-one, not eighty-one.”
I cross my arms. “Yes, exactly what every attractive thirty-one-year-old man wants—a relationship with a single mom who has a twelve-year-old daughter.”
“That’s oddly specific.” Christine tilts her head. “And you said, ‘the one living in your house’ like you’ve already narrowed it down.”
Damn it. “Only one of them is living with me.”
“Uh-huh. And?”
“And nothing. He’s just...there. Professionally.”
“How professionally did you describe him as ‘very’ hot?”
“I was answering your question.”
“Was the question ‘describe him in a way that makes me think you’ve thought about this extensively’?” She grins. “Because that’s what I’m hearing.”
I pick up my menu like a shield. “What’s the special today?”
“You never order anything else.” She cackles. “Oh, you’ve got it bad.”
“I do not—”
“What’s his name?”
“Noah.” Her eyes practically twinkle. I should not have shared that.
“Noah.” She says it slowly, testing it. “Okay. So we’ve established he’s thirty-one, hot, lives in your house, and you refer to him by his name. What else?”
“There’s nothing else.”
“Is he single?”
I nod reluctantly.
“Then what’s the problem? You’re single. He’s single. You’re both consenting adults sharing a house.”
“He works for me.”
“He works for your security company. Not quite the same power dynamic.”
“Christine—”
“I’m serious, Alicia. When’s the last time you let yourself have something just for you? Not for Stella, not for your career, not for managing Richard’s feelings—just for you?”
The waiter arrives with our food, and I’ve never been more grateful for the interruption.
But as we eat, Christine’s question lingers. When was the last time I did something just for myself?
“What about your date?” I ask, redirecting.
“Didn’t make it past one drink. He spent forty minutes explaining cryptocurrency.” She spears a bite of quiche. “I don’t want to hear about blockchain. I want to hear about your bodyguard’s—” She pauses dramatically. “—skill set.”
“Christine!”
“What? I meant his professional qualifications.” Her grin is wicked. “Unless you have other data to share?”
My phone rings—Richard’s landline, meaning Stella is calling—and I grab it like a lifeline. “Saved by the preteen.”
Christine just laughs and reaches for another pastry.
I exit the restaurant so I can speak where it’s quieter.
“Hey, honey,” I answer. Sometimes when she calls on Sunday things aren’t going well and she’s looking for an excuse to exit early.
“Hey, Mom,” she says. “Where are you?”
“Brunch with Christine.”
“Cool.”
“What’s up?” I left my coat and scarf hanging on my chair. The crisp air cuts through my sweater, nipping at my skin. I’m under an awning, but the air itself feels wet.
“Oh, nothing much. I’m about to head over to Melissa’s for a study session.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah, and then Jessica wants me to join them for dinner tonight, you know, since I’m not spending the whole day with them.”
That’s not unreasonable, I suppose—but the word them lands hard, an unwelcome reminder that I’m no longer the center of her orbit.
“Well, you can just let me know what time to pick you up.”
“It’s probably going to be a late dinner. The reservation is at eight.”
That’s very late for a school night, but I’ll save that commentary for Richard.
“So, I might just stay with them tonight, then come home after school tomorrow.”
“That’s fine,” I say, scanning the street. Movement from a man in a black coat beneath an awning across the street catches my attention, but then he steps inside the store.
“Why don’t you text me what your snack, lunch, and dinner preferences are for the week. I’ll make sure we’re stocked up.”
“Okay. Sounds good.” But the words land flat, missing her usual energy.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m just not looking forward to spending my whole day on pre-algebra.”
“Oh. Well, time spent doing math problems is never time wasted.”
“Mom?”
“Yes.”
“You’re weird. Later.”
The call ends. That’s not exactly proper etiquette for ending a phone call, but at least I’ve nipped her habit of just hanging up without any goodbye at all.
I return to my seat at the table inside. By the time we finish brunch, I’ve got a mild, happy buzz and a friend who will not let the idea of enjoying my bodyguard go.
“He is your bodyguard,” she says, giggling. “And what does that body need?”
I push at her. Together we’re sophomoric.
Often Angela is with us, but she’s recently started dating this guy named Frank, and so we don’t see her as often.
When she’s single again, she’ll be a regular once more.
It’s good she’s not here, actually. She’d probably insist on returning home with me to see this specimen for herself.
With a hug and a wave, I step out into the drizzle for a brisk walk home. When I enter the house, it’s conspicuously silent. As I’m toeing off my rain boots, the front door opens, and Noah enters. He’s in a black coat—a familiar black coat—and my pulse stutters before my brain catches up.
“Did you follow me?”
He’s not sheepish at all. “Did you try to give me the slip?”
“It’s not necessary for you to follow me to brunch.”
“That’s not your call.”
“I’m fine, Noah. I was having brunch, not walking into a dark alley.”
He shrugs, stepping out of his coat. Rain beads along the jacket lining before sliding to the floor.
“Dark alleys are predictable,” he says. “Brunch crowds aren’t.”
I can’t tell if he’s teasing. His face doesn’t give me much to work with, but something about his presence sends my stomach fluttering. I hang my scarf, aware that my fingers are clumsy. The champagne, maybe. Or the way he’s watching me.
“I don’t need you shadowing me everywhere,” I say, though my voice has lost its edge.
“Maybe not. But you do seem to get into trouble when I’m not around.”
I open my mouth to argue, but his smile—half-smirk, half-sincere—is incredibly appealing.
He crosses the room, placing his keys on the console table.
His sleeves are rolled up, revealing the veins and sinew of his forearms, all quiet strength and control, and I have the irrational thought that he could hold me together if I let him.
I should go up to my office. Instead, I say softly, “You’re soaked.”
“Comes with the job.”
I reach for a towel from the hall closet and hand it to him. His hand closes around the towel, and for a split second, around mine.
It’s nothing—and everything.
Christine’s voice echoes in my mind: Who says you can’t play?
Noah watches me, hands idle. “You’ve had a long week,” he says.
“I have.”
“Stella’s with her dad again tonight?”
“Yes.” My throat tightens. “She’s…staying over. They’re having a late dinner.”
Something shifts between us. His gaze flicks to my mouth, then back to my eyes, as if checking whether I’m aware of what’s happening. I am. God help me, I am.
“I was going to make tea,” I say, stepping past him toward the kitchen. “You want some?”
“Sure.” His voice is low, a little rougher.
In the kitchen, I busy myself with the kettle, pretending my pulse isn’t thundering—that his presence has no effect and everything is normal. When I turn, he’s leaning against the doorframe, watching me again—not protectively this time, but intently.