I’ve never been good at putting feelings into words. I’ve always been better with paint. With a blank canvas and a worn brush in hand. With Corbin standing behind me, whispering, “Create.”
But whatever I feel for Corbin has to come second. Tate’s well-being comes first. Corbin walked away from our marriage in one piece. I didn’t. And neither did Tate. I can’t let my careless mistakes break my son the same way again.
Tomorrow, I’ll be civil to Corbin.
But late nights, lingering touches, him holding me like this?
That’s over.
I press my lips together, fighting the lump in my throat as I head toward my bedroom.
Tonight, I’m sleeping alone.
Chapter Four
Corbin
I shouldn’t be nervous. It’s just breakfast. Just sitting at a table with my son, drinking coffee, and pretending not to notice his mother.
Except I do notice her. I always have.
I spot her the second I step inside. She’s behind the counter, laughter slipping from her lips, the sound carrying over the low hum of morning conversations. A bright pink flower is tucked behind her ear, and she’s wearing one of her ridiculous coffee-themed T-shirts. This one saysEspresso Junkiewith a cartoon espresso shot tap dancing.
I choke back a laugh.
Tate sees me before Jules does. His whole face lights up, and he waves frantically from a booth by the window.
“Dad!”
I weave through the crowd, dropping a hand to ruffle his hair as I slide into the seat across from him. “Hey, bud.” The bruise on his cheek looks awful.
Jules appears a moment later, balancing a coffee cup and a plate of chocolate chip pancakes. She sets the plate in front of Tate before steeling her gaze on me.
“Thanks for coming,” she says. Then adds, “For Tate.”
She’s obviously in a mood.
A smirk tugs at my lips. “Morning to you, too.”
She narrows her eyes. “Corbin.”
Yep, definitely in a mood.
I lean back in my chair, taking my time. “I got the message loud and clear. I’m only here for Tate.”
Her lips press together.
“Good,” she mutters as she sets the coffee cup in front of me. “Black, right?”
A flicker of amusement crosses her face, and I know she’s thinking about theSerial Killerjoke from yesterday.
“Right.” I watch her too closely as she turns on her heel and walks away, ponytail bouncing.
This is fine. We’re co-parents. Breakfast shouldn’t be complicated.
And yet, I can already tell it’s going to be.
I watch Tate devour his chocolate chip pancakes while Jules busies herself behind the espresso machine, her back rigid, her movements precise. Like she’s trying too hard to focus on anything but me.
