Chapter 16
LILY
Say no, say no, say no.
Dinner should be harmless—just a neighborly thing to do—but with him, it feels anything but innocent.
He’s Josh: kind, available, too attractive for my sanity, and still a firefighter.
We agreed on a friendship, but his eyes keep flirting, and I’m not sure I’m not flirting back.
And my daughter is already halfway attached, because apparently, it’s in the Finnigan women’s DNA to gravitate toward good men.
I get it; Penny is starved for a father figure, and the way she latched onto Dorian proved it, same as she’s doing with Josh now.
I shouldn’t let Josh slip into that role and have another dozen reasons to shut this down.
Part of me wants to flee, to grab Penny and retreat to the safety of our apartment where feelings are contained in clearly labeled compartments.
But the weight of their twin puppy dog expressions is unbearable.
I stare back and forth between Penny’s hopeful face and Josh’s ridiculous imitation, complete with a trembling bottom lip, and I can’t bring myself to say no.
“Fine,” I cave. “But I’m warning you, she’ll eat you out of house and home. Ballet makes her ravenous.”
Josh’s face breaks into a grin that hits me like a sugar rush. “Challenge accepted.”
Penny throws her arms around me and asks if she can keep riding her bike while Josh cooks. I nod, and my daughter takes off, leaving me alone with Josh as we move to the kitchen.
He picks up a half-empty beer bottle—the exterior dotted with condensation—and takes a sip. “Sure you don’t want one?” he asks, eyebrows up.
Hell, no. The last thing I need is to drink around him.
I’m already contending with the mental slideshow of his many talents: him wielding a toolbox (why are ultra-competent men instantly ten times sexier?), and now, him at the stove, which is somehow even worse.
Throwing alcohol into that mix is asking for trouble.
“Water is fine, thanks.”
He pours me a glass from the pitcher in the fridge.
My gaze lands on his very round ass, and I glance away. “What are you making?”
Turning, he flashes a grin. “My famous no-cook pasta.”
I frown. “Raw pasta? Bit difficult to chew, no?”
Josh comes close—way, way too close as he offers me the glass. “The sauce is raw, not the pasta,” he murmurs, amused. “I promise you’ll be impressed.”
I take the glass with hands that don’t shake despite the wave of raw masculinity radiating off him at close range. Years in the ER have taught me how to stay cool under pressure, and I’ve never been more grateful for the training.
I clear my throat. “So you can fix almost anything, you cook… What else are you great at?”
He doesn’t move back, just tilts his head and grins. “Are you sure you want an answer to that?”
My spine catches fire. I swallow—maybe I’m not so cool—and mutter, “Probably not.” I retreat to a stool and put the entire kitchen island between us.
Josh sets water to boil and starts chopping up ingredients—tomatoes, fresh basil, some kind of cheese, tuna, salami—and tosses them in a bowl with a pinch of salt and a drizzle of olive oil.
He works fast, efficiently, always with a smile on his face like the chores that sometimes overwhelm me relax him instead.
Ten minutes later, he drains the pasta, gives the bowl one last toss, then announces, “And now for the secret ingredient.” He pulls a tiny jar from the fridge and spoons in a touch of something, mixing it in quick before I can get a good look.
I lean forward. “What is that?”
He grins. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.”
“Really? You’re not gonna tell?”
“You want all my secrets on the first dinner?”
“It’s the second one,” I counter.
Right, I had more meals with this man than I had alone in the past three days.
He leans closer, dropping his voice. “Family secret recipes are at least third-dinner material.”
But the chemical reaction currently hijacking my ability to blink is clearly second-dinner material.
I get out of the eye lock by physically removing myself from the room to call Penny in. We sit at the table, and Josh loads our plates. The pasta is bright and summery and, of course, absurdly good, whatever his secret ingredient. Damn him. He can do no wrong.
Mercifully, Penny dominates the conversation like any self-absorbed eight-year-old would.
She monologues her way through a mountain of pasta.
When she asks if he enjoys ballet, Josh tells her yes, but she calls his bluff asking if he prefers Giselle or Esmeralda.
I do my best not to laugh as he squirms his way out of that one.
For the entire dinner, I keep my mouth full and let my daughter carry the night, grateful I’m saved from asking more questions I’m not ready to hear the answers to.
By the time we’re finished, it’s well past Penny’s bedtime. Her eyelids are drooping despite her valiant efforts to stay awake.
“We should head home,” I say, standing to help clean up. “It’s a school night.”
“Leave the dishes,” Josh insists. “I’ve got them.”
“But—”
“You can take over kitchen duty next time,” he says, and the words “next time” hang between us like a question mark.
He shoos me off with that lopsided smile that makes it harder to leave. But we must.
At the door, Penny wraps her arms around Josh’s waist with zero hesitation. I wait for the pang of annoyance or worry, but it doesn’t come. If anything, I’m a little envious of how easy it is for her to want affection. Ask for it. Take it.
Josh lets her stay in his arms for as long as she wants. Would he let me too? “Come back any time,” he says, looking at Penny before his gaze drifts back to me.
“Careful,” I say, only half-joking, “she’ll take that as a standing invitation.” I might too.
A shrug, a tiny tilt of his mouth, and something in his eyes that makes it hard to breathe—a tenderness, an openness that I don’t know what to do with. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
Penny goes to get her bike, circles around the house, and precedes me down the path, pedaling. I linger behind a moment longer.
“Be safe tomorrow.” The words slip out—muscle memory from a life I barely remember.
“Always,” he promises. And even if we both know it’s a promise no firefighter can truly keep, I believe him anyway.
I’m already halfway down the path when he calls after me. “Hey, Lily?”
I look over my shoulder.
“Lemon zest,” he says with a shy smile.
I lift my eyebrows, not understanding.
“The secret ingredient.”
I beam at him.
It’s such a small thing, this flicker of trust, but it feels monumental. A tiny piece of himself, offered freely. A door cracked open a little wider.
As I walk away, I can feel his eyes on me until I turn the corner. And tonight, I don’t mind being watched. I don’t mind being seen.