Tate’s small fingers squeeze mine as we walk down the block toward our apartment above the bakery on Main Street. The bruise on his cheekbone is now plum-colored.
“Yeah, bud?”
His little shoulders slump. “I know I’m supposed to be with Dad tonight… but I’d rather stay with you.”
I lick my lips, my gaze flicking ahead to the curb. To Corbin’s car. He’s already here.
Tate notices the second I do, his grip tightening in my palm.
“I’ll talk to Dad,” I say gently.
Our pace slows as Corbin steps out of the car, running a hand through his dark hair.
The last shreds of daylight cast golden rays across his sharp jawline, his high cheekbones, his gorgeous, unreadable face.
My heart kicks against my ribs.
“Hey, bud.” Corbin’s voice is smooth, easy, like this is any other night. I watch as he ruffles our son’s hair. The way Tate leans into the touch, like he needs it. “You ready to go?”
Tate hesitates. His blue eyes darting to mine.
I clear my throat. “Tate would like to stay here tonight if that’s okay with you.”
Corbin’s gaze falters. And for the first time in years, I see him completely unguarded. Worried. Upset. Unsure.
“I, uh…” I fidget with the strap of my bag. “I was going to make spaghetti and meatballs…” I trail off. Then, before I can stop myself— “If you wanted to stay for dinner.”
Corbin’s brows lift slightly. I’ve never invited him up before. He’s never even stepped inside the stairwell.
His surprise is evident, but he nods. “Yeah. That sounds good.”
Tate lights up. He tugs on Corbin’s hand. “Come on, Dad! You have to meet Igor!”
“Who’s Igor?” Corbin asks.
“My snake.”
Corbin blinks. “Your what?”
I press my lips together, holding back a smile as he follows Tate inside.
We climb the wooden staircase, and I fumble in my purse for the keys. My fingers tremble slightly. Why am I nervous? Corbin’s house is pristine. A minimalist dream. Mine? Lived-in. Warm. A little chaotic.
I step aside to let them in first. As Corbin passes, his hand grazes mine. A silent thank you.
Tate races to his room, his feet working double time as he goes to grab his robotic snake.
I exhale, setting my purse on the crowded coffee table and moving toward the kitchen. Dishes overflow in the sink. Flower petals cover the countertops.
It’s a mess.
And I hate that I suddenly care.
“This place looks like you,” Corbin says warmly, edged with something almost nostalgic.
I grab a pot from the faded yellow cabinets, filling it with water. “I’m sorry it’s a mess.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, my face burns.
