Chapter Fifteen #2
He steps inside and immediately looks for me. When our eyes meet, something in his expression softens.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” I stand, smoothing my hands over my jeans. “She went down easy. Three books instead of two, but I figured that was an acceptable bribe.”
“She suckered you.”
A soft laugh escapes my lips. “Completely. I had no defenses against those eyes.”
He smiles—a real one, tired but genuine—and shrugs off his jacket. “Thank you. For doing this. I know it was a lot to ask.”
“It wasn’t.” I mean it. “She’s a great kid, Zayden.”
“Yeah.” He moves into the living room, close enough that I can smell his cologne and see the shadow of stubble on his jaw. “She is.”
We stand there, the space between us charged with everything we’re not saying. The banquet. The hallway. The kiss I’ve been trying not to think about for two days.
“She told me you talk about me,” I blurt out.
His eyebrows rise. “She did?”
“Apparently, you say my name funny.” I make air quotes. “Like it’s special or something.”
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe. Or embarrassment. “She’s six. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“Doesn’t she?”
He holds my gaze, and the air between us thickens.
“Do you want something to drink?” he asks, his voice lower now. “I have wine, beer, or sparkling water if you want to stay hydrated and boring.”
“I should probably go.”
“Probably.”
Neither of us moves.
“One drink,” he says. “To thank you. For everything.”
I know what I should do. I should say no, grab my coat, and walk out the door before this goes somewhere we can’t come back from.
“One drink,” I hear myself say instead.
We end up in his kitchen, leaning against opposite counters, glasses of red wine in hand. I try not to stare, but it’s hard.
The kitchen is stunning—herringbone hardwood floors, a marble backsplash that catches the under-cabinet lighting, and an island big enough to seat four, complete with a built-in wine cooler beneath.
It has professional-grade everything—a kitchen you’d see on Pinterest and assume no one actually owns.
But there’s a step stool by the sink so Maisie can reach the faucet, and a cookie jar shaped like a dinosaur sits on the counter.
A bowl of clementines rests nearby, and a chore chart on the wall features Maisie’s name in glitter letters.
A permission slip for a field trip clings to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a hockey puck.
It’s not a showroom; luxury meets real life, and somehow, that makes it even more attractive.
“She showed me around her room,” I say. “Very strong opinions about bookshelf organization.”
“Let me guess—arranged by height?”
“Tallest to shortest. She made me fix one I accidentally bumped.”
“That’s my girl.” He takes a sip of wine, and I watch his throat move as he swallows. “What else did you two talk about?”
“Bluey, Ellie the elephant, and the fact that you don’t eat green vegetables.”
“She lies.”
“She also mentioned her mom.”
His expression shifts—not exactly closing off, but becoming careful. “What did she say?”
“Just that her mom left and didn’t come back.” I set my wine glass down. “And that she worries about you not coming back too.’”
Zayden is quiet for a moment. “I know. I’m trying to show her I’m not going anywhere. But it’s hard to undo that kind of damage.”
“You’re doing a good job. She knows you love her.”
He smiles, soft and tired. “Yeah.”
The silence stretches, warm, comfortable, and dangerous. I should go. I really should go.
“I should go,” I say aloud, but I don’t move.
“Yeah.” He doesn’t move either. “You probably should.”
“Maisie’s upstairs.”
“She is.”
“And we’re... whatever we are.”
“Whatever we are,” he repeats, a hint of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “What are we, exactly?”
“I have no idea.” I pick up my wine glass and take a long sip. “But I know we shouldn’t be doing what we’re doing with your daughter twenty feet away.”
“Probably not.” He pushes off from the counter, moving closer. “Even though what we’re doing is just drinking wine.”
“Is that all we’re doing?”
“At the moment.”
He’s close now—close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his dark eyes and the slight curve of his lips.
“You’re trouble,” I murmur.
“So I’ve been told.” He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger on my jaw, feather-light. “But you like trouble.”
“I really don’t.”
His thumb strokes my cheek. “Then why are you still here?”
I don’t have an answer. Or I do, but it’s not one I’m ready to say out loud.
His thumb moves across my cheekbone, and I lean into the touch without meaning to. It would be so easy to close the distance, to let him kiss me again and lose myself in the heat and desire coursing through my veins.
But Maisie is upstairs. This is his home, his real life, and if I cross this line, there’s no going back.
“I should go,” I say again.
This time, I step back, putting space between us. I cross the room and pick up my coat from the couch.
He doesn’t stop me, just watches with those dark eyes, hands shoved in his pockets.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For tonight. For watching Maze.”
“Anytime.” I mean it more than I should.
I’m at the door when he speaks again.
“Tori.”
I turn.
“She liked you.” There’s something vulnerable in his voice. “Maze doesn’t warm up to people easily. I can tell she liked you.”
My throat tightens. “I liked her too.”
“That means something. To me.”
I hold his gaze for a long moment, then nod, open the door, and step out into the frigid night air.
I’m halfway to my car before I let myself exhale.
I just spent the evening with his daughter. I read her bedtime stories, tucked her in, and let her hold my hand while she fell asleep.
This isn’t just a kiss in a hallway anymore. This isn’t just tension, attraction, and stolen moments.
This is starting to feel like something real.
And I’m terrified.