Chapter Twenty
DINNER FOR THREE
Zayden
The Italian arrives in twenty minutes, which gives me eighteen minutes of Maisie talking Tori’s ear off about her best friend Sophie’s hamster, and two minutes of me standing in the kitchen pretending to get plates while actually just watching them.
They’re on the couch together, with Maisie’s legs draped across Tori’s lap as if they’ve done this a hundred times.
Tori nods along to the hamster saga with genuine interest, asking questions and laughing at all the right moments.
Her hair is coming loose from its ponytail, and she looks more relaxed than I’ve ever seen her.
She looks like she belongs here.
The thought hits me square in the chest, and I have to turn away, gripping the edge of the counter until I regain my composure.
“Daddy, did you know hamsters can run eight miles in one night?” Maisie calls out.
“I did not know that.”
“Tori says it’s because they have lots of energy and nowhere to put it. Like me.”
Tori catches my eye over Maisie’s head, a smile tugging at her mouth. “Her words, not mine.”
“Accurate, though,” I reply.
The doorbell rings, and I grab the food, tipping the delivery guy too much because I’m distracted. By the time I unpack everything on the table, Maisie has dragged Tori to the kitchen by the hand and installed her in the chair next to hers.
“You sit here,” she instructs. “Daddy sits there. Those are the rules.”
“I didn’t know we had seating rules,” I say.
“We do now.”
Tori bites her lip, clearly fighting a laugh. “I guess I’m sitting here, then.”
I pour wine for Tori and myself, apple juice for Maisie, and start dishing out pasta. It feels weirdly domestic—passing containers back and forth, twirling noodles onto forks, the clink of glasses—like we’re a real family instead of whatever we actually are.
“This is really good,” Tori says after her first bite.
“Sal’s. Best carbonara in Brooklyn.”
“Bold claim.”
“I stand by it.”
Maisie watches this exchange with the laser focus of a tiny detective. I know that look. It means she’s about to say something that will either be hilarious or mortifying, with no in-between.
“Tori,” she says, twirling her fork with exaggerated casualness, “do you think my dad is handsome?”
And there it is.
Tori chokes on her wine. I close my eyes briefly, wondering if it’s possible to die of secondhand embarrassment.
“Um.” Tori dabs at her mouth with a napkin. “That’s... a very direct question.”
“Hannah says he’s handsome,” Maisie adds, nodding.
Great. So my middle-aged nanny has apparently been checking me out. That’s not uncomfortable at all.
“She told her friend on the phone that he looks like a ‘romance novel cover,’” Maisie continues, making air quotes. “What’s a romance novel?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Eat your pasta.”
Hannah—sweet, matronly Hannah who bakes cookies and does crossword puzzles—discusses my looks with her friends. Cool. Great. Love that for me.
Tori’s cheeks are pink, but she’s smiling. “Your dad is... yes. He’s handsome.”
“Ha!” Maisie points her fork at me triumphantly. “I told you.”
“You told me what? We’ve never discussed this.”
“I told Sophie you were handsome, and she said her mom thinks so too, and I said obviously because you’re my dad.” She shrugs as if this is perfectly logical. “So I was right.”
I take a very long sip of wine.
Tori’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter. When I catch her eye, she mouths sorry at me, but she doesn’t look sorry at all.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Maisie asks Tori, pivoting without warning.
“Maisie.”
“What? It’s just a question.”
Tori sets down her fork, giving the question serious consideration. “No. I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“How come? You’re really pretty.”
“Thank you. I’ve just been... busy with work.”
Maisie nods sagely, as if she understands the demands of a professional career. “Daddy doesn’t have a girlfriend either. He says he’s too busy, but I think he’s just scared.”
I’m going to ground this child until she’s thirty.
The table goes quiet for a moment. Tori’s eyes meet mine, and there’s a whole conversation happening in that look—one we can’t have out loud, not here, not with Maisie watching us like we’re the most interesting show on television.
“More pasta?” I ask, because I’m a coward.
“Please.”
I serve her another helping, and our fingers brush when I pass the plate. It’s nothing—barely a touch—but I feel it everywhere.
“You guys keep looking at each other funny,” Maisie observes.
“We’re not looking at each other funny,” I insist.
“You are. It’s the same way Sophie’s mom looks at Sophie’s stepdad,” she states before taking a big bite of pasta. “Right before they kiss.”
I’m going to need more wine.
“So,” Tori says brightly, clearly desperate for a subject change. “Maisie, tell me more about the recital. What are you dancing to?”
It works. Maisie launches into an elaborate description of her dance routine, complete with demonstrations of specific moves that nearly knock over her juice.
By the time she’s done explaining the “very important twirl at the end,” the tension has eased, and we’re back to something that feels almost normal.
Almost.
Because underneath the easy conversation, I’m hyper-aware of everything—the way Tori laughs at Maisie’s jokes, the way she asks follow-up questions that prove she’s actually listening, and the way she looks at my daughter like she matters—like her recital, hamster facts, and opinions about pasta shapes are worth paying attention to.
Sienna never looked at her like that. Not once.
My throat tightens.
Dinner continues. Maisie asks Tori her favorite dinosaur (T-Rex, though she admits the Pachycephalosaurus has “great energy”).
She asks what Tori wanted to be when she grew up (a marine biologist, then a teacher, then a physical therapist).
She asks if Tori can do a cartwheel (yes, but not indoors, a rule Maisie finds deeply unfair).
And through all of it, I just watch—watch Tori charm my daughter without even trying, watch Maisie open up in ways she rarely does with new people, and watch this connection forming between the three of us that I didn’t plan for, didn’t expect, and definitely don’t know how to handle.
“I’m done,” Maisie announces, pushing her plate away. “Can we have dessert?”
“You had ice cream two hours ago.”
“That was a snack. This is dessert. Totally different.”
“She’s got you there,” Tori says.
“Whose side are you on?”
“Hers. Obviously.” She grins at me. “Girls stick together.”
Maisie beams. “Yeah, Daddy. Girls stick together.”
I’m outnumbered, and honestly? I don’t hate it.
We compromise on half a cookie each—chocolate chip, from the batch Hannah made—and then it’s cleanup time. Tori starts clearing plates before I can stop her.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.” She’s already at the sink, rinsing dishes. “You cooked. Well, you ordered. Same thing.”
“It’s really not.”
“Close enough.”
Maisie disappears to use the bathroom, and suddenly we’re alone in the kitchen, standing side by side at the sink, and the air between us changes. It thickens.
“She likes you,” I say quietly.
“I like her too.” Tori hands me a plate to load into the dishwasher. “She’s amazing, Zay. You’ve done such a good job with her.”
The compliment lands somewhere soft. “I just try not to screw it up.”
“You’re not screwing it up.” She turns to look at me, and we’re close—too close for two people who are supposed to be figuring things out. “She’s happy. She’s confident. She knows she’s loved. That’s all you.”
My hand finds her hip before I can think better of it. She doesn’t pull away.
“Tori...”
“Daddy!” Maisie’s voice echoes from the hallway. “I can’t find my pajamas!”
We spring apart like teenagers caught making out.
“Check the dryer!” I call back, my voice only slightly strangled.
“Oh! Found them!”
Tori lets out a breath that’s half laugh, half something else. “That was close.”
“Story of our lives lately.”
We finish the dishes in charged silence. Every accidental brush of shoulders, every time our hands touch while reaching for the same thing—it all feels significant. Weighted. Like we’re both holding our breath, waiting for something to happen.
The dishwasher hums to life, and Tori dries her hands on the kitchen towel.
“I should go,” she says. “Let you guys get to bath time.”
“You could stay.”
The words come out rougher than I intended. She looks at me, startled.
“Stay,” I say again, softer this time. “I’ll put her down, read her a story. It takes maybe thirty minutes. And then we can... talk. About everything.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I can see her thinking, weighing her options. Wanting to say yes but afraid of what yes might mean. “I can’t,” she whispers. “Not tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I stay...” She swallows hard. “I’m trying to have some boundaries here. And being alone with you, in your home, after dinner with your daughter—” She shakes her head. “It’s too much. I’ll say yes to things I’m not ready to say yes to.”
I want to convince her. But I look at her face and see the genuine uncertainty in her eyes—and I make myself step back.
“Okay,” I say.
She stares at me for a long moment. Then she rises on her toes and presses a kiss to my cheek—soft and quick, her lips warm against my skin.
“Goodnight, Zayden.”
“Goodnight.”
Maisie comes barreling back into the kitchen carrying her dinosaur pajamas, her hair a tangled mess.
“Is Tori leaving?”
“Yeah, sweetheart. She has to go home.”
Maisie’s face falls for just a second before she recovers. “Will you come back? ... another time?”
Tori crouches down to Maisie’s level—something I’ve noticed she does every time she talks to her, meeting her as an equal, not speaking down from above.
“I hope so,” she says carefully. “I’d like that.”
It’s not a promise. I can tell she’s choosing her words, protecting my daughter from the kind of guarantees that might not hold. And somehow that makes me fall for her even harder—that she cares enough to be careful with a little girl’s heart.
Maisie considers this for a moment, then throws her arms around Tori’s neck. “Okay.”
Tori hugs her back, one hand smoothing over Maisie’s hair. “I had a really good time with you today.”
“Me too.” Maisie pulls back and looks at her seriously. “You’re my favorite of Daddy’s friends.”
Tori’s laugh comes out a little watery. “Thanks, Maze. That means a lot.”
“I’ll walk you out,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended.
We go to the door together, Maisie trailing behind us. In the hallway, Tori turns back one more time.
“Thanks for dinner,” she says. “And for... everything.”
“Thank you for saving my life today. The pickup, I mean.”
She smiles—really smiles, the kind that reaches her eyes and makes my heart do something embarrassing.
“Goodnight, Zayden.”
“Goodnight, Tori.”
I watch her walk to her car and climb inside. Once it starts and pulls away, I go back inside, where my daughter is waiting with a look on her face that is way too knowing for a six-year-old.
“You really like her,” she says.
“What makes you say that?”
“You kept looking at her all funny.”
“I didn’t look at her funny.”
“You did.” She takes my hand and tugs me toward the hallway. “It’s okay, Daddy. I like her too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. She’s nice. And she listens. And she’s really pretty.”
“Is she?” My lips twitch. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Dad!” Maisie whines like I’m the most clueless person she’s ever met.
“What?” I laugh. “You’re the prettiest girl I know, Maze.”