Chapter 13 #2
Graham has his boots and coat off in what has to be record time, and he and the girls run to the living room with a bag of books he dumps on the new rug for them to look at together.
“It looks amazing in here,” Paige says, looking around at the finished space.
We had to move back into her place for two days earlier this week so the downstairs floors could get refinished, but now that that’s done and the countertops went in and I got a dining table and some living room furniture, this house is truly starting to feel like home.
“I’m giving Jules and Audrey one hundred percent of the credit,” I say. “They designed it and did the work.”
“It was a team effort,” Audrey says, and I know she’s also thinking about her brother’s involvement.
I haven’t talked to him much this week because he’s been traveling for work.
He was at a game in Dallas a few days ago, and then I think he was in Nashville.
I saw him briefly at Graham’s hockey practice this morning, but then Iris had a total meltdown, so we ended up leaving early and I didn’t get a chance to talk to him.
I’m still trying to come to terms with how utterly different he seems now—though I guess what I’m seeing is the side of him that he started to show me that night at dinner five years ago, before everything went sideways the next night.
It’s been hard not to dwell on his proclamation that I’m “not ready” for anything to happen between us .
. . mostly because he’s right. I haven’t quite let go of Josh yet.
Every day I spend in this house makes me realize two things: I’m happier here than I ever was in Park City with him, and in many ways, I owe this new life to him because he bought me this house.
We head back to the kitchen. Jules sets some sort of amazing smelling casserole into the warm oven, and Morgan and Paige unload a few bottles of wine onto the counter.
As I pull wineglasses out of the glass-front cabinets between the sink and the dining area, Morgan tells me she grabbed my mail on the way in.
“Can you set it over there?” I point toward the countertop on the opposite side of the kitchen, closest to the entryway, where I have a bowl for keys and a tray for mail.
“Sure. You got more mail for Sophia.”
For some reason, the previous owner’s mail hasn’t all been forwarded. It’s always house-related stuff and I don’t receive it often, so when I do, I write Wrong address—return to sender on the envelopes and stick them back in the mailbox.
“All right,” I say. “I’ll take care of it.”
I pour my friends some wine, and Audrey asks, “Hey, how’s it going with Tammy?”
This past week was the girls’ first week with her. “Iris and Ivy seem to love her. I only worked half days this past week so we could ease in, but everything went really well. I’m moving up to full-time already next week. It’s been more seamless than I thought it would be.”
In fact, my girls are thriving. I was so worried about how they’d do with me working, since they’d only ever known a world in which I was around almost every minute. But what they say about kids is true: they are highly adaptable.
“She really is amazing with little kids,” Audrey says. “I don’t know what I would have done without her.”
“You’ve done great with him,” Jules says, nudging Audrey’s shoulder with her own. I get the sense Audrey is constantly worried that, being the only parent Graham has, she’s not enough. And I love the ways I’ve seen both Jules and Jameson lift her up.
“He’s really the sweetest little kid,” I say as I nod my chin toward where we can see the kids through the new opening between the kitchen and living room.
Graham can be a little wild sometimes, but right now he’s sitting on the rug with his back against the couch, and the girls are sitting on each side of him.
He’s “reading” them a story, but by the sounds of it, he’s telling them what’s happening in the pictures. It’s freaking adorable.
Audrey gives a little smile and says, “I worry sometimes that he’s too sweet.”
“Is there such a thing?” Morgan asks before tilting her wineglass back for a sip.
“I think maybe if you’re a boy there is,” Audrey says. “I don’t want him to get picked on next year in kindergarten.”
“He’s going to be just fine,” Jules says. “He’s a Flynn.”
They share a look I can’t interpret, and Paige distracts us with the sound of her rumbling stomach and a groan. “Oh my God, I’m starving.”
“Let’s eat then,” I suggest and turn to pull two different salads—a kale quinoa salad and a spinach salad with candied nuts, berries, and feta cheese—from my new refrigerator so I can dress them.
My friends ooh and ahh, and I laugh. “Salads are about the only thing I don’t hate to make. Probably because there’s rarely much cooking involved in them.”
“Do your kids eat salad?” Audrey asks, a little awe in her voice.
“Yeah, with a generous side of chicken nuggets or grilled cheese or something.”
“Maybe Graham will eat something green if your girls are,” she says hopefully.
We set the food out on the table, and call the kids over, and as we sit down to eat my first real meal in my brand new kitchen, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude that this is my life now.
We’re just finishing dessert when there’s a loud knock on the door. I lean back in my seat and glance down the entryway in surprise, and when I look back at the table, everyone is staring at me.
“You going to get that?” Paige asks.
“Why do I feel like you all know who’s at the door?”
Morgan shrugs. “Because we do.”
“What’s going on?”
“Get the door, Lauren,” Paige insists. Next to her, Jules wears the same smirk that I so often see on her brother’s face.
And when I open the door, Jameson’s standing there in joggers and a hoody.
While most women go weak in the knees at a hot guy in a suit, that’s Jameson’s default.
I’ve seen him that way a thousand times.
But Jameson, casual like this? It feels like getting to see a private piece of him he doesn’t show to people—like he’s taken his armor off.
And because I have no idea what you even say to an insanely hot guy who shows up at your door unexpectedly, the first thing out of my mouth is “Aren’t you freezing?”
In my defense, it’s late-February in New England.
He steps up over the threshold, mere inches from where I’m standing. “I run hot.”
Holy shit, do you ever, my body screams. “What—” I stammer. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re going out.”
“I can’t—”
“You can. Jules and Morgan are going to put your girls to bed, and then Jules will stay until we get back. We won’t be gone too long.”
“What if—” I’m about to say that’s not okay with me, but my girls come barreling into the entryway yelling, “Flynn!”
He squats down to their level before they get to him. “Jame-es-son.” He sounds his name out for them like he did when we were at his house for dinner, and they laugh when he boops them each on the nose. They try to pronounce his name, again with limited success.
He rests his knees on the ground and sits back on his heels, looking up at me from where my girls are now trying to climb him like he’s a jungle gym. “Why don’t you go put on something cozy? Leggings maybe?”
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I look down at my wide leg jeans and fitted sweater, remembering how cute I thought I was a few hours ago when I put this on.
“Absolutely nothing is wrong with what you’re wearing.” His lips curl into that half smile that I see so often. “But it won’t be comfortable for what we’re doing.”
“And you’re not going to tell me where we’re going?”
“Nope.”
“Jameson,” I say, my stomach flipping over at the thought of going somewhere with him, just the two of us. “This sounds an awful lot like a date.”
“If I was taking you on a date, I assure you, you’d know it. This is just one friend taking another friend out to do something . . . fun.”
I’m sure my face screws up into a look of skepticism when I say, “You don’t exactly sound like you believe this is going to be fun.”
He stands as my girls toddle off toward Graham, who’s now back in the living room, and takes a step closer to me. He sure does like to be in my personal space.
“I guess how fun it is will depend on how receptive you are to my activity of choice.” He leans down so his lips practically graze my earlobe, and with a voice so quiet it doesn’t even sound like him, he says, “Now run upstairs and change like a good girl.”
Heat flashes through my body so quickly I’m sure my skin is a brighter red than my hair, so I turn away quickly and head up the stairs.
When I’m most of the way up, I glance down over my shoulder and he’s standing there, watching me walk away with that same self-satisfied smirk he wore last weekend at the Rebels game.