There was a pause—the kind where two people simultaneously question all their life choices.
“I brought your birthday coffee,” I added quickly, holding up the tray like it could shield me from my own words.
His mouth twitched. “Thank God. I was worried you came over to insult my sleepwear in addition to gawking at my glasses.”
“I would never,” I said, stepping inside before I lost my nerve.
His house smelled like cedar and something woodsy—like cologne and clean laundry and safety, if safety had a scent. It was familiar, but that safe feeling I always used to have here was now coupled with a surge of something else. Something new. I set the tray down on the counter and refused to look directly at him. I’d been here a million times before. My kids had been here. My stupid ex-husband had even been here. What the hell was wrong with me?
He followed, scratching at his hair. “So. The usual coffee, thank you. Muffins too? This is nice. Just like old times, except you added my favorite muffin. Thanks.”
“Right, old times. Sure. Except you never looked like a sleepy romance novel lumberjack when you used to answer the door, and I usually had one or more kids with me.”
His head jerked up. I stared at the muffins like they were the most fascinating objects on earth.
“Paige,” his voice was a low growl, and I felt it from the top of my head to the tips of my curling toes.What the hell was going on?
I pretended not to hear the way my name sounded, all gritty with sleep and full of warmth. Instead, I focused on fussing with the lids on the coffee cups. My hands trembled, so I lined them up like soldiers, buying myself a moment. “I said nothing. Forget it. You didn’t hear a thing.”
“You saidlumberjack.”
I slammed my eyes shut as if that could make me disappear. “It was meant clinically.”
“Clinically? Uh-huh. Okay.”
We stared at each other across the kitchen island like teenagers playing chicken with our hormones.
I shoved the muffin toward him. “Happy birthday. Don’t get all weird about it.”
He smiled—slow and dangerous. “I think I like it when you get weird about it. This is kind of nice. And did I mention that I’ve always liked that sweatshirt?”
“I’m leaving.” Heat pooled beneath my collar, prickling my neck. He reached for the muffin with a reverence that made it seem like I’d offered him something rare, some talisman instead of half-stale carbs from Coffee Cabin. He broke it in half, the gesture careful, deliberate, and I wondered if he was stalling, too.
“No, you’re not leaving,” he finally said. “You’re gonna stay and have coffee with me. It’s our birthday tradition.”
He was right. I wasn’t going anywhere. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to leave.
He took a sip of the latte, made a satisfied sound that landed somewhere uncomfortably close to a groan. I watched his throat move as he swallowed, and I knew I turned bright red. I had to look away before I started analyzing it like a scene fromBridgerton.
“You doing anything today?” I asked, trying to steer us back toward safer shores.
“Cassidy birthday barbecue. You know the drill. Too much meat, unsolicited opinions, a game of lawn darts that will absolutely end in someone getting stabbed.”
“Sounds wholesome as usual.”
“You should come. You’re basically family.”
The wordbasicallyhit like a dart in its own right, andfamily,for some reason, was downright painful.
“Right,” I said. “Practically like a cousin or something.”
He didn’t say anything for a second, just traced the rim of his cup with one finger, his attention suddenly fixed on the swirls of foam as if they held an answer. I picked at the sleeve of my coffee cup, wishing I could peel myself out of this skin, out of this moment, and float into something less complicated.
“That’s not what I meant,” he finally said.
For a breath, it was as if everything in the room contracted—coffee scent, late-morning sunlight, the sweet ache of almost. Then the moment passed, as moments do, and he looked away.
“I know,” I said, my voice a little too soft.
