by Gina Azzi
“We’re going to plant some in the garden,” Milly tells me, leading me to the set table.
“Where?” I ask, my eyes roving over the place settings. Folded napkins, the blue plates from Crate and Barrel that Layla bought on a whim because she liked the color, glasses filled with lemon water. Grated cheese. Red pepper flakes. Extra basil. A bowl piled with meatballs. I haven’t seen the table prepared like this in a long time and seeing it now fills me with a strange sense of nostalgia. Longing mixed with gratitude.
Wait. There are only three settings. I frown, turning and nearly colliding with Bella. My hands clasp her elbows to keep her steady.
She releases a nervous laugh and reaches around me to place the bowl with spaghetti in the center of the table. “Thanks, James. That was close.”
“You aren’t eating with us?” I ask, wondering if I pushed too hard the night before I left. But then, why would she cook us this meal? Her eyes meet mine and I don’t see hesitation in them, just…uncertainty.
She shakes her head and tips her head toward my seat. “Not tonight. You guys should have a family dinner. Enjoy being together.”
Her consideration of Milly and Mason, of their needs, is touching. But what about her? I touch her wrist and her eyes snap back to mine. Bottomless, blue and clear, they’re the kind of eyes a man could get lost in. It scares me that some days, I want to.
Her lips curl in a soft smile as she gazes at my kids. “Buon appetito!” She brings her fingers to her mouth and kisses them with a loud smack, the way the guy in our local pizzeria does.
Milly giggles and Mason emulates her.
I grin at the twins. It’s nice to see them relaxed and goofing off again. Since Bella moved in, some of the sorrow that’s hung over our home like a thundercloud has eased. Little rays of sunlight are peeking through now and this time, I don’t take them for granted.
“Sit and eat. Stay with us, Bella,” I say, pulling out a chair. “Please.”
She falters for a moment, surprise washing over her face.
“Told ya,” Mason announces, scurrying to the cabinet to pull out another plate.
Milly gets a fork and napkin.
“Are you sure?” Bella asks, lowering her voice.
I pat the seat of her chair, knowing that this invitation is deeper than common decency. I insist anyway. “Very.”
She nods, an unreadable expression on her face. But she sits on the chair and thanks the twins as they arrange her place setting.
I pile all the plates with spaghetti and meatballs, the scent of garlic and basil washing over me. Clearly, Bella is also one hell of a cook.
Milly raises her glass. “I have a toast,” she announces seriously.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Bella turns her attention to Milly, raising her glass.
“To Bella,” my daughter says formally, “Thanks for teaching us to make sauce.”
“And for cleaning our fish tank,” Mason adds.
I choke on my laughter but Bella beams. “Anytime, guys.”
“Cheers!” the twins say in unison.
We all clink glasses and dig into our meal.
“So, what happened while I was gone?” I ask, my fork hovering over the plate. Man, this spaghetti is delicious.
“We watched a new movie on Disney Plus,” Milly says, looking pointedly at her brother.
“It was superheroes!” Mason gushes, pumping a fist in the air.
“It was really good,” Bella says, a note of surprise in her tone.
“And Bella taught us how to play Rummikub,” Mason adds.
“We gambled!” Milly exclaims, her hands fluttering with excitement.
I snort back my laughter as Bella blushes. “With Oreos,” she explains.
“I won,” Mase declares as Milly sticks out her tongue.
“And we finished our books,” Milly tacks on.
“Matilda and How to Train Your Dragon?” Now it’s my turn to sound surprised because I didn’t expect them to finish their books for another week.
“Bella had us read for thirty minutes each night,” Mason explains.
“To make up for the cookie gambling.” Bella smirks and I smile.
“Sounds like you guys had a great few days,” I say, finally taking my bite of spaghetti. I chew it thoughtfully, a strange warmth spreading through my chest. The twins were really fine without me. More than that, they seemed to thrive during their first stay with Bella.
“It was a blast,” Mason says, confirming my thoughts.
I catch Bella’s eyes, enjoying the brightness that sparks in their depths. “Thank you,” I murmur so only she can hear.
She tilts her head in my direction, her expression softening. Then, she spears a second meatball and adds it to my plate.
In a way, this meal feels like a homecoming. Sitting around the table and listening to Milly and Mason fill me in on school, watching Bella add a second helping to Mason’s plate, laughing along with a silly story that happened on the playground, clarifies something important in my mind, shifting my perspective.
For months, I’ve been lost in a cloud of grief. Right now, I can see a hint of the blue sky again, flickers of better days on the horizon.
I catch Bella’s eye and smile. She grins back.
A pang hits me in the chest and while I should turn away, I don’t. Instead, I lean into it. Into this moment. Into my family’s new norm.
4
Bella
“Ahh!” I shriek, jumping back and pulling an ear pod from my ear. The loud music I was jamming out to stops abruptly.
James laughs, closing the refrigerator door. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I didn’t think anyone was home,” I explain, dropping my ear pods on the counter. Even though I ran this morning, it wasn’t enough to shake the agony that wraps itself around my bones and sinks its teeth into my limbs as autumn passes. It’s the season I hate more than any other even though it used to be my favorite. As a result, I’ve increased my sessions with Dr. Carlisle to two a week, just to get me through the next few weeks.
“My car is getting an oil change,” he explains.
I pull open the refrigerator to fill up a glass of water and James reaches around me, swiping a carton of eggs. When I turn, I’m surprised he hasn’t stepped back, but remains planted in front of me. I almost lose my balance but James’s hand darts out, grasping my forearm.
He frowns as he takes in my appearance. My shirt is sticking to my skin with sweat, my hair falling out around my face below my Boston Hawks baseball cap. I pushed hard today, clocking twelve miles in my second run before my legs turned to jelly and my lungs protested.
“Didn’t you already run this morning?” James asks, his eyes narrowed. Since we came clean about our mutual attraction, we’ve been doing a delicate dance. One where we come together and separate again, over and over. It’s both complicated and thrilling.
Some days, we’re buddy-buddy, other days, we’re formal and polite. And every now and then, we’re shaky inhales and bedroom eyes. To date, neither one of us has made a move but I’m always acutely aware of James when we’re the only two people in a room.
But his question, personal and probing, causes me to clamp my mouth shut. I didn’t realize he tracked my early morning runs. Today, my eight-mile sunrise workout didn’t cut it. My thoughts wouldn’t slow and after I dropped the twins at school, I couldn’t quiet the noise in my head.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt out instead, not wanting to discuss my running.
He lifts an eyebrow, his eyes flashing with amusement, momentarily distracted from his questioning. For a second, he looks more like the guy I met in Taps instead of the solemn and sexy single-dad I’ve come to view him as. “You mean, in my house?”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, smartass.”
His mouth drops open in mock horror.
I chuckle, enjoying this playful side of him more than I should. Over the past few weeks, we’ve settled in
to an easy routine. For the most part, our conversations have circled around Milly and Mason. Still, this version of him, amused, joking, and a teeny bit flirty, is my favorite. “I just meant I thought you were at practice.”
“I was. It ended early.” He moves to grab a frying pan. “Yaeger dropped me off.”
I frown. “Are you hungry?”
“I was just going to make an omelette.”
“Oh, I can do that for you,” I offer, cringing after I do because this is the type of shit I always did for Jerry. The cooking, cleaning, and pretty much doting on him even though I worked just as many hours, if not more, outside the home.
James shakes his head. “No worries. I got it. Are you hungry?” He glances at me. “You must be starving after pushing yourself that hard…”
He lets his sentence trail off but I don’t offer any more information. Because I can’t seem to form words as I stare at the kind, observant, thoughtful guy before me. I recall exactly two instances when Jerry made me food. Both occurred after our loss, the one that cut me off at the knees, and I think he only cooked at his mother’s prodding. Even then, he grumbled about doing it, as if I was being dramatic by preferring sleep to food at the lowest point of my existence.
“That’s a yes,” James decides. “Go grab a shower and then we’ll eat lunch.”
“To-together,” I stutter, wondering if he means anything more than just…lunch.
“Is my company really that awful?”
“No, of course not.” I shake my head, blushing. “I just—”
“Go put on some dry clothes, Bella.” He glances pointedly at my chest, where my white shirt is practically see-through, giving a glimpse of my colorful sports bra.
“I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.”
I scurry out of the kitchen and back to my room, needing a moment to collect myself. This is James Ryan, a man I’ve already admitted makes me feel…things. Why am I blushing and bumbling my words?
I blow out a breath and shed my sweaty workout clothes. I take a quick shower and pull on a pair of leggings and a simple, olive green tee. I glance at myself in the mirror, wincing at my wet hair. I pull out my blow dryer and dry it quickly, scrunching it for some body and volume. When I’m done, I assess my reflection.
Considering I pulled myself together in fifteen minutes, it’s not awful. I mean, I’m not going to win any beauty awards but…is that what I’m even going for?
James has already seen me in my pajamas. In my robe. Naked.
I cringe at that reminder. My boss, James Ryan, has seen me completely naked. In intimate positions and sexy poses.
Why am I more nervous about eating lunch with him than I am about my former striptease?
Because you like him. A lot. Even more than you let on.
The words whisper through my mind like a spring breeze.
I flush. Of course I do. I mean, how the hell could I not?
James Ryan is a hot, sexy, confident dad who understands the bowels of despair and has been lost to the throes of grief. He’s the only man who’s looked at me and seen past the facade I shield myself in. In one night, James managed to make me feel more than I have in years and then, I ran away.
Even after our paths crossed again, he’s been kind and considerate toward me. More than that, he’s been curious and concerned. He’s admitted his attraction, his feelings, his worries about our delicate situation. He’s been upfront from the start and eating lunch together doesn’t change anything. It’s just lunch.
This isn’t a date. This is James being friendly. Considerate. His kindness makes me like him even more.
I walk down the stairs and enter the kitchen just as James places two plates on the kitchen island.
“Smells good,” I comment, trying to keep my voice light. Casual.
“Thanks.” He gestures to the plates with a spatula. “I can really only do breakfast.”
“I love breakfast for dinner. Or lunch.” I take a seat on a barstool.
“Same,” he agrees, rounding the island and sliding onto the stool next to mine. “Layla used to hate it. Said it wasn’t a real meal but every other Friday when I didn’t have a game, we’d do breakfast for dinner. Pancakes, waffles, eggs, the whole thing. The twins loved it.”
“I bet.” I cut into my omelette and spear a bite with my fork. “I used to make breakfast for supper the first Wednesday of the month. It was this weird rollover from college.” I take my bite and moan. “This is delicious.”
James’s eyes glimmer. “Glad you like it.”
I nod. “I can’t remember the last time someone made me something to eat,” I admit.
James’s eyebrows dip for a moment. “Did your ex-husband, was he, did he ever cook?”
I snort and shake my head. “No way. Jerry wasn’t really into doing anything…domestic,” I say, not wanting to admit that Jerry, while a hard worker and provider, was very firmly planted in the gender role he thought men should occupy. The partner who goes out and brings home the bacon. The fact that I too earned bacon was lost on him, even when I sometimes earned more.
“Jerry, huh,” James says, eating a bite of his omelette.
I flush, recalling the night over a week ago when I slipped and called him Jer. It just popped out, a random thought in my mind that I voiced aloud.
My shoulders rise as I duck my head. “Yep.”
I wait for James to comment on that night or dig for some Jerry dirt. Instead, he surprises me by saying, “You were right.”
“About?” I ask, enjoying more of my omelette.
“We were all okay.” He smiles.
I smile back. “See? How was Chicago?”
He wipes his mouth with a napkin and leans back in his stool. “You know, it was really great. I forgot…” He pauses and shakes his head, as if recalling memories. “I forgot how it feels to go all in. To focus everything I have on the game, leave it all on the ice. For the past few years, all of my thoughts, even when I was playing, would creep back to home. Was Layla feeling okay? Were the twins letting her rest? And then, after she passed, were the twins driving their aunt Maia nuts? Were they sleeping through the night?” He glances at me, tilting his head. His eyes are lighter today, more gold flecks than usual. “Of course, I was nervous leaving the twins. It was the first time they’ve ever stayed with someone who wasn’t family and I…I didn’t know what to expect. But after I spoke with them before the game, something clicked.”
I stare at him, waiting for him to continue. I like that he’s sharing his thoughts with me. I like that he’s confiding in me about him and not just his kids.
“I felt…calm. A lot of the anxiety and thoughts that circle on a loop just eased. I skated onto the ice and was able to block everything out the way I used to. I think it’s because I knew, really knew, that the twins were in good hands and happy. So for that, Bella Andrews, I thank you.”
I smile so big from his praise that my cheeks sting. It’s been a long time since someone other than Selina or Colton paid me a real compliment. “You’re welcome.”
“You really like what you do, huh?”
“I love it. I love working with children, being with them. Their perspective on life, their outlook, it’s refreshing. I wish more people could be as open, as adaptable and accepting, as kids.”
“Yeah. They sure are resilient.”
“Yeah,” I agree, my stomach looping into a knot. Resiliency is something I’ve lacked in recent years. But I’m trying to push through it, right? The loss and the hurt and the gnawing failure that’s eaten most of the good in my life?
I’m here, aren’t I? Doing a job I love, supporting a family I relate to?
“You okay?” James’s voice is low, pulling me from my thoughts.
I turn toward him and whatever he reads in my expression prompts him to reach out. His hand lands on my knee, comforting.
“You are too,” he says, as if knowing I need to hear the words. As if he recognizes that I’m searching f
or assurances. “Resilient.”
I let out a sigh and smile. Before he can remove his hand, I place mine on top and line our fingers up. Lacing mine with his, I squeeze once. “Thank you, James. I didn’t realize how much I missed family until you invited me to spend time with yours.”
His expression softens and tenderness sweeps through his eyes. “We’re going to be okay, you and I.”
“I think so too.” I’m finally in a place where I can say that and mean it.
“You seem distracted,” Dr. Carlisle comments on our session that night.
“Just tired,” I say.
Dr. C lifts an eyebrow.
“He made me lunch today. Nothing fancy, just an omelette. But it was…nice.”
“James?”
I nod, my cheeks heating.
“You’re fond of him.”
“I like his family.” I bite my bottom lip at how defensive I sound.
If Dr. C is put out, he doesn’t show it. “You’re fond of the family then.”
“Of course.”
He waits, steepling his fingers the way he does when he wants me to make a connection without his having to prompt it. After a moment of silence, Dr. Carlisle sighs. “Are you fond of them because they’re a nice family trying to move on from a tragedy? Or are you fond of them because they are a family you can see yourself belonging to?”
My throat dries at his words. It’s no secret, especially not between Dr. Carlisle and me, about how anchorless I’ve felt since my divorce. Most days, I feel like a ship aimlessly sailing across the world, belonging to no place, having no destination in mind. “I want a family, you know I do.”
“I do. But you have a family. Your—”
“My parents have their own lives, as they should. My brother will most likely marry and have children of his own one day. It’s not the same thing.”
“It’s not,” Dr. C agrees, confusing me further.
I shrug. “What do you want me to say?”
“Whatever you feel like sharing with me.”
I huff out a sigh. “I like the Ryans. Milly and Mason…they’re wonderful. I like James. I’m comfortable with them. I, I fit in with them.”