Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Zoey left giggling. That was good. It was a good thing, Maeve told herself, leaning against the wall in her hallway.
She closed her eyes. Could she do this? Every day, forever?
Answer the door to his radiant smile, endure his easy flirtation, his refreshing happy-go-lucky take on life?
Look across at him at Zoey’s birthdays, her graduation, her wedding.
Him and his many girlfriends. Could she chat and laugh and be normal?
Yes, she told herself, walking back down the corridor, because she had to. Because this was a good thing.
It had been a long time since Maeve had a Saturday free with no work and no Zoey.
She made herself a coffee and sat in the garden, tried to relax looking at the birds but kept checking her phone in case something had happened.
She thought about them together drinking Cookies and Cream Dreams. Him saying his silly jokes and making Zoey laugh.
She felt a squeeze of something inside her—envy, sadness?
—but it wasn’t because of Brodie’s time with her daughter, she realized, it was wishing she was there with them.
Wishing she’d said yes to Brodie’s invite.
She’d order a Strawberry Serenade and Zoey would tell Brodie how gross strawberries were.
What would Brodie have, she wondered? Probably a Cookies and Cream Dream to make Zoey happy.
But if he were to choose for himself … the triple-chocolate Mudslide.
Why on earth was she thinking about Brodie’s milkshake choices?
She stood up too quickly. Don’t be ridiculous, Maeve.
To keep busy, she cleaned the house from top to bottom. There wasn’t a speck of dust by the time she finished. No random Cheerios under the kitchen table. Then she made a pie.
When the screen door banged to show they were back, she heard Zoey say, “Wow, Mom, you baked something?” Then to Brodie, “Mom never bakes.”
Maeve rushed to the kitchen doorway to defend herself. “I bake!”
Brodie was kicking off his sneakers, basketball under one arm; so at home. She had to get a grip.
Zoey scrunched up her nose. “When?”
Maeve looked around her as if the answer might present itself. “Now,” she replied in the end.
She saw Brodie smirk, as if she’d been caught out doing something to impress him.
Had she been trying to impress him? Or was she just bored? And if she was trying to impress him, what made her think that her distinctly average attempts at baking would do the trick?
Zoey stared at her like something weird was going on, then she leaned over to Brodie and whispered, “I’ve literally never seen my mom bake anything, ever.”
Maeve knew she was blushing. That she’d overdone it by baking an apple pie.
That in some bizarre homespun dream, she had indeed been trying to impress him.
To show him the delights of small-town life.
Was she insane? Not only had he grown up here—this was not her normal life! He’d seen the chaos she lived in.
“Good basketball?” she asked, busying herself cutting the pie so she didn’t have to look at Brodie.
“Brodie didn’t know I was on the team,” Zoey said, pulling out a chair at the table. “Yum!” she grinned, taking the slice that Maeve had cut her.
“She’s good,” Brodie said, leaning against the doorway, arms folded.
“Mom’s good, too,” Zoey’s voice was mumbled from the pie she’d crammed in her mouth.
“I was okay at school.” Maeve tucked her hair behind her ear, far too aware of Brodie in her house—all sparkly and clean and smelling of warm sugar. It was safer before, when she was wary of him. “And I do bake, by the way. Sometimes,” she added, wishing immediately that she hadn’t.
“I didn’t say you didn’t.” Was that a hidden grin? Could he tell she was awkward? Why was she suddenly awkward around him?
It felt like everything had changed. Now that the truth of Zoey’s parentage was out in the open, it felt different from before.
There was no covert truth to edge around, no accusatory whisperings.
The conversation was no longer all explanations and a desire to be understood.
This was it—he was the missing father—it was happening.
He and Zoey could build their own relationship, he didn’t even have to be in the house.
But here he was. All six foot of him, with his dimples and his shaggy blond hair and his surfer tan.
She fumbled the pie as she plated it up.
“You want some or have you overdosed on sugar already at the diner?”
Brodie took the plate from her, sauntering to the table with his broken, crumbling slice. “Oh, I’ll most definitely have some pie. I wouldn’t pass up such a rare treat.”
Maeve rolled her eyes, had never had more cause to do so than with this man.
Was he teasing her? She couldn’t read any signals, she was too overly aware of him in her house, sitting at her table. She thought about how she’d wanted to be with them playing basketball and having shakes. Wanted to be part of the giggling and the easy asides.
Her and all the other women in the world.
She took in a calming breath. He’s the father of your kid. That’s it.
Suddenly, as if her mind had been suppressing it until the issue was resolved, the image of her night with him flashed into her mind.
She remembered, as she sat across from him, exactly what the touch of his lips felt like, his hand tracing down her arm to lace his fingers with hers and lift them above her head.
She remembered the weight of his body. The smell of his skin.
The crease of his smiling eyes when he was mere inches away from hers.
“This is great pie,” he said, mouth full.
“Yeah, Mom, you’re good at this.”
For a second, Maeve forgot what they were talking about.
Brodie said, “I think your mom’s good at everything.”
“Me, too.”
She couldn’t bear it. Her palms were clammy. She didn’t want to sit, she didn’t want to stand. She could just feel the thrum through her body of having Brodie wrap his arms tight around her waist and kiss her with a careless laugh on his lips.
“Coffee?” she asked.
Zoey scraped her chair back. “Can I go and watch TV?”
Maeve nodded.
Brodie twisted round in his seat. He looked too big for the kitchen. She imagined her grandma making eyes at her behind his back, giving her a cheeky thumbs-up. Grandma would have loved Brodie with all his slick charm and compliments.
“Have I done something?” he asked, elbow on the table, chin propped on his fist as he studied her. “I feel like I’m making you nervous.”
Maeve shook her head, nonplussed. “No not at all.”
Brodie narrowed his eyes like he could tell she was lying. Before he could say anything, she said, “What milkshake did you have?”
His lip quirked as if he hadn’t expected the question from her. “Same as always. The Mudslide—triple chocolate.”
She swallowed. She’d guessed correctly.
“What’s your favorite?” he asked.
“Strawberry Serenade.”
“Willow’s favorite, too,” he said, a little smile on his lips. Had he been guessing hers? No, of course not, because he wasn’t behaving like a pathetic teenager.
Zoey burst back in and said, “You want to play Mario Kart?”
“I always want to play Mario Kart,” Brodie replied, getting up and following Zoey into the living room, just one amused backward glance at Maeve.
Maeve blew out a breath and slumped against the kitchen counter.
She looked at the remains of her pie and, torn between wanting to throw it in the bin and have a taste of it, she got a fork and scooped up some of the sweet apple and sugared crust. It wasn’t half bad, maybe Brodie had been impressed, she thought, then as quickly, frowning at herself, she muttered, “Get a grip, Maeve.”