Chapter 6
SIX
LUCY
I stood in front of the mirror, twisting a strand of hair around my finger like a nervous teenager before prom.
The dress was fine. Simple, flattering, not too mom, not too “I’m trying.
” But it suddenly felt too short and too tight and too everything.
Not as bad as the dress I’d worn to the auction, but still.
“You keep staring at yourself like that, the mirror’s gonna start charging rent.” Grandma’s voice floated in from the doorway, casual and amused.
I met her gaze in the reflection. She was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest with a “This is gonna be good” grin.
“I just don’t want to look like I’ve forgotten how dating works,” I muttered, smoothing the front of my dress for the fifth time.
Considering I’d gotten pregnant with Liam when I was eighteen, it couldn’t precisely be said that I had any idea whatsoever what dating after high school was like, but I didn’t want to look like I didn’t know.
“Oh, honey.” Grandma walked into the room and plopped herself down on the edge of the bed like she had all the time in the world. “Here’s your checklist: No mom jeans. No minivan stories. And for God’s sake, don’t ask about his 401K until at least date three.”
I rolled my eyes, but it tugged a reluctant smile out of me. “You think this is funny?”
“I think it’s overdue.” She tilted her head. “You’ve been playing solo defense since Liam could crawl. Tonight, you get to pass the ball and let someone else play offense for a change.”
“That’s a terrible sports metaphor.”
“I was raised on Larry Bird and questionable cable reception. You’ll live.”
I turned back to the mirror, trying to pin down what felt off. My hair wasn’t cooperating, and my eyeliner looked slightly unhinged. Maybe I was too old for winged liner. Maybe I was too old for any of this. An old maid at twenty-five.
“I feel ridiculous.”
“You look like a woman,” Grandma said softly, no sarcasm now. “And not just a mom. That’s important.”
I swallowed, throat tight.
She stood and gave my shoulders a squeeze. “Now breathe, don’t overthink it, and remember—he’s the one lucky to have your time, not the other way around.”
She started toward the door, then paused, tossing a glance over her shoulder like she’d just remembered something casually.
“Oh, and Liam’s packed. He and I are going to do pancakes and a movie marathon tonight, then we’ll hit the park in the morning.
I promised I’d take him down to Birmingham to see that new Disney movie at Imax. I figured we’d make a weekend of it.”
I blinked. “A weekend?” This was not at all what we’d discussed.
“Don’t look so surprised,” she said. “You’ve earned a little freedom. And who knows?” Her eyes twinkled with that patented brand of mischief I really should’ve been better at spotting by now. “Might come in handy.”
“Grandma, this is a date, not a honeymoon.”
She waved me off. “Pssh. Don’t start saying what it’s not before it’s even happened. There’s a fresh box of condoms in your nightstand.” Before I could protest, she was moving into the main part of the house. “C’mon, kiddo. We’ve got pancakes in our future!”
“Pancakes!” my son shouted, already racing for the door without even a goodbye.
Then the door slammed, and they were both gone.
“Well, bye to y’all, too.” I let out a breath and headed for the living room.
The quiet hit me first. Not silence exactly—there was still the hum of the fridge, the creak of the old floorboard by the hall—but it was Liam-less. No cartoons on low volume. No Legos threatening my arches. Just… quiet.
It felt unnatural.
Also kind of incredible.
I looked around, hands on my hips, surveying the usual wreckage of a six-year-old’s life.
I had plenty of time before Cord was due to pick me up.
I could do a quick sweep of things. It was not a just in case I brought him home.
It was simply an opportunity to actually get somewhere without my pint-sized hurricane coming in my wake to sow additional destruction.
I gathered up a fleet of plastic dinosaurs from the coffee table and dumped them into the toy chest, along with a plush fox, a race car, and what I thought used to be a chicken nugget.
Well, that went into the garbage. I wiped a ring of dried juice from the counter.
Straightened the pillows on the couch. Tossed two tiny socks and a rogue pair of Pokémon underwear into the laundry basket.
When I stepped back, the room looked almost—adult. Not entirely. The bookshelf still leaned with kid titles and construction paper projects. But for a blink of a moment, the space felt like something I might’ve lived in before.
Before Liam. Before divorce. Before everything got so heavy and loud and shaped by everyone else’s needs.
Not that I’d had a version of that before. Liam had changed the entire trajectory of my life before I’d ever really been out on my own. So imagining that Before felt more like imagining the Instead. The what-if scenario where I hadn’t gotten pregnant right after high school.
I didn’t like that thought. Not really. Because I adored my son and wouldn’t trade him for anything in the world. But it stayed.
I crossed my arms and stood there in the middle of my mostly clean living room, exhaling slowly.
It was nice. Just for tonight. Nice to be Lucy, not “Mom.” It had been a really long time since I’d been Lucy to anyone but my grandmother.
I was halfway through applying lip gloss—carefully, because I was out of practice and more than a little afraid of looking like I’d borrowed it from my seventh-grade niece—when the doorbell rang.
My hand jerked. Lip gloss smeared.
I stared at myself in the mirror.
Too late now.
There wasn’t anyone to fall back on, no Liam meltdown or PTA excuse. Grandma had him for the night—hell, for the weekend, apparently—and the house was quiet. Too quiet.
I smoothed the gloss with a fingertip, gave my reflection a last glance, and headed for the door before I could talk myself out of it.
This wasn’t just a date.
It was the first one that had ever really counted. I mean… it didn’t count. Not really. Grandma had bought him for me. But as practice went, maybe that was a good thing.
What I’d had with Marcus didn’t feel like it qualified anymore. That was teenaged desperation and hormones and two scared kids pretending they were grown. That relationship ended the second he decided he wasn’t cut out to be a parent—and left me to do it all on my own.
This?
This was my first real shot at something that might be mine. Or at least a baby step to remind myself that I wasn’t actually one foot in the grave yet.
I opened the door.
Cord Gaffney stood there in a button-down the color of thunderclouds and dark jeans that fit like they’d been made just for him. One hand in his pocket. That lazy smile that was half smirk, half warm invitation.
“Hey.” His gaze moved over me, slow but not invasive, and then settled on my face again like he’d landed exactly where he meant to.
I forgot how to breathe for a second, because all I could think was, Oh no. He’s hot. Like adult hot. Grown man, ruin-your-life, this-could-be-something hot.
And I had no idea what to do with that.
“Hey,” I managed. “Right on time.”
“Figured you were the kind of woman who’d notice.” Cord smiled, and there was no teasing or judgment in the look. He glanced behind me like he was half-expecting someone else to pop out. “You ready?”
As ready as I’d ever be.
I grabbed my purse and stepped outside, locking the door behind me with a quick glance at the empty driveway. No scooter. No chalk drawings. No signs of the kid-shaped whirlwind who usually defined my evenings .
It felt weird.
Cord opened the passenger door for me—of course he did—and I slid into his truck, forcing myself to remember how to breathe like a normal human woman who’d done this before.
Spoiler: I hadn’t.
Not really.
Cord climbed in on the driver’s side and shot me a sidelong glance that made my stomach flutter.
“You look great, by the way,” he said. “Like… unfairly great. I feel underdressed just sitting next to you.”
I laughed, a startled, awkward thing that probably sounded like a duck trying to flirt.
Which was better than a duck trying to fart.
Oh my God, why was I thinking about duck farts?
This was what came of spending my days with six-year-olds.
“Please. I changed my outfit three times. You’re lucky I didn’t show up in yoga pants and regret. ”
He grinned. “Honestly? That would’ve still been intimidating.”
I turned toward him, eyebrows raised. “How exactly is that intimidating?”
“I’ve seen women chase grease fires in five-inch heels and give CPR while wearing scrubs covered in Elmo stickers,” he said. “You’re all terrifying. In a good way.”
That made me laugh for real. One of those warm, involuntary bursts that loosened my shoulders and made my brain back off for a second. “You’re not so bad at this, you know.”
“At what?”
“First dates,” I said.
He glanced over as he pulled out of my driveway, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Good. I was worried I peaked during the part where your grandma bought me.”
Another laugh escaped me, and just like that, the tension that had coiled tight around my spine started to let go .
This wasn’t a setup anymore. It wasn’t a joke. It was a man I didn’t know yet. But maybe… wanted to.
Once he was behind the wheel, and we were cruising down Maple, I glanced over. “So, where are we headed?”
“Mario’s.”
I blinked. “I’ve never actually been.”
That earned me a look. “You’ve lived in Huckleberry Creek how long?”
“A year.”
“And you’ve never been to Mario’s?”
“Afraid not.”
There was a beat where I thought he might press—ask why, ask what kind of shut-in I’d been. But instead, he just grinned like it was his favorite kind of surprise.
“Well, then you’re in for a treat.” He shifted gears like it was no big deal. “Please tell me you eat carbs.”
“Like a second religion.”
He let out a low chuckle. “We’re gonna get on just fine.”
Mario’s sat on the edge of downtown in a refurbished brick building with big windows and ivy creeping up the front.
The kind of place people remembered proposals and anniversaries in.
The kind of place you didn’t show up to in leggings with your kid covered in marker—so yeah, not exactly my usual scene.
Inside, the lighting was low and warm, the air heavy with garlic and oregano. The tables had white paper over linen and crayons tucked into a little tin—a just in case, though most of the tables tonight were filled with couples and not kids.
The host greeted Cord by name, which didn’t surprise me. He seemed like the kind of guy who knew everyone, not because he was trying, but because people just liked him.
We were seated in a corner booth, the candle between us flickering against the glass. The space was intimate in a way that made conversation easy. Close. I slid in and tried not to overthink how I was sitting. What my dress did when I crossed my legs. How many times I’d glanced at his mouth.
I could hardly be blamed for it. It was a really great mouth, and he kept smiling.
He gave the menu a once-over, then looked at me instead. “You okay with red?”
“Completely.”
One bottle of wine and a warm bread basket later, I was already laughing.
It wasn’t forced. I didn’t even realize how relaxed I’d gotten until I stopped to breathe and felt my shoulders not trying to climb up my ears.
Cord was easy to talk to, but more than that—he made it feel like I wasn’t just being tolerated.
Like he was actually curious. About me. And not in a way that felt like an interview or an agenda.
He told a story about his first firehouse call—something with a goat and a very angry rooster—and when I nearly snorted wine out of my nose, he just grinned like that was the best part of the night so far.
I couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at me like that.
And when his fingers brushed mine as we reached for the same piece of bread, he didn’t jerk back. He just let them linger, warm and steady, like we’d done this before. Like we might do it again.
I was flirting. I was enjoying it. And more than that, I was starting to feel like maybe this night—this moment—wasn’t just a borrowed fantasy. It might actually belong to me.
The check had come and gone. There was exactly one bite of chocolate torte left between us, and I was already calculating whether it would be rude to claim it.
Cord caught the look and gave a little nod. “Take it. ”
I hesitated a half-second—then didn’t.
“Smart woman,” he said, and I didn’t miss the way his smile lingered.
I licked a bit of ganache from my fork and set it down, leaning back against the booth. The candlelight flickered low between us, shadows pooling at the edges of his jaw, making everything feel closer. Warmer.
“What’s something you miss?” he asked.
The question landed soft but deep.
I blinked. “Sorry?”
“Something that used to light you up,” he said. “Before life got crowded.”
My mouth opened, then closed again.
It wasn’t the kind of question you usually got on a first date. It wasn’t even a first-date kind of date. This whole thing had been a stunt, a fundraising joke. And somehow it had turned into the first real adult moment I’d had in longer than I cared to admit.
I didn’t overthink the answer. “Dancing. I used to love dancing.”
Cord didn’t speak right away. Just watched me like the word itself told him something. Then, without breaking eye contact, he shoved back from the table and stood. “Let’s go.”
My brows lifted. “Go where?”
“You said you miss dancing.” He extended his hand. “Let’s go fix that.”
I stared at his hand, then back up at him. “Is this a line?”
His grin was a little lopsided. “If it were, it’d be smoother.”
A laugh caught in my chest as I took his hand. And the night stopped feeling like a one-off and started feeling like something else entirely.