Page 103 of Cruel Lies

His voice changes instantly. "Sick how?"

"Stomach bug. He's throwing up. He's okay, it's not serious, it's just—" I close my eyes. "I have to cancel. I'm so sorry. I can't leave him like this. I'm really sorry, Ronan. I know you had something planned. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"I'll be there in thirty minutes."

Alarmed, I sit up. Hayden groans a protest at the loss of his pillow and I ease him back down. "Ronan, you don't have to do that. You don't want to spend your Saturday night in a house with a puking nine-year-old. Trust me."

"I've spent Saturday nights in far worse places, with far worse company," he says. "I'll see you all soon."

He hangs up before I can argue.

I look down at the phone. Then at Hayden, gray and small against the cushion. Then at Isabella, who has appointed herself head nurse and is currently taking Hayden's temperature and jotting down notes in crayon on a clipboard.

"Well," I tell them. "Change of plans."

He shows up in twenty-five minutes, not thirty, in dark jeans and a soft blue henley with the sleeves shoved up. I've never seen him out of a suit, but as much as I'd like to make him stand in the center of my living room and do slow circles so I can admire him from every angle, my kid is sick and now is unfortunately not the time.

"What's in the bag?" I ask when I open the front door with one hand while my other hand holds up the sagging strap of the red dress.

"I brought supplies." He steps past me into the house, easy as anything, like he's done it a hundred times. He clocks the whole living room in one sweep—the bucket, the washcloth, the sick kid, the small nurse-in-training—and nods. "Mr. Hayden. I hear you've had a rough evening."

Hayden peers over the edge of the blanket. He's suspicious. He's never met Ronan face-to-face, only heard about him, and he's not the kind of kid who warms up on command. "Are you the mirror guy?"

I choke.

Ronan doesn't miss a beat. "That's me,” he confirms gravely, crouching down by the couch so he's at Hayden's level, not looming over him. "Your mother tell you about that?"

"She told Grandma on the phone and I heard." Hayden studies him. "That was weird."

"It was extremely weird," Ronan agrees. "I stand by it."

Something in Hayden's suspicious little face loosens, just a hair. He respects a man who owns his weirdness.

"I brought you flat ginger ale," Ronan says, setting the bag down and unpacking. "Because the bubbles are hard on a sick stomach, but the ginger helps. Saltines, too. My favorite flavor of applesauce. And this." He holds up a box. "Popsicles, with real fruit. When you can't keep water down, you can usually keep down a popsicle, because it goes slow."

Hayden is mildly impressed by this wealth of intel, delivered with the seriousness of a Navy SEAL. "How do you know all that?"

"I know a lot of things."

"Did you say popsicles?" Isabella is delighted as she appears at his elbow out of nowhere. Then she looks at Hayden, who's still scowling, and follows his lead. She plants her hands on her hips and squints up at Ronan. My little girl does not warm up on command, either. "Who areyou?"

"My name is Ronan."

"That's a weird name."

"Isabella!" I blurt, shocked at her rudeness.

But Ronan simply laughs. "My mother liked it." He doesn't blink. "And you must be Isabella. I hear you have a caterpillar named Doctor Fuzz."

Isabella's eyes go enormous. "How do you know about Doctor Fuzz?"

"Your mother told me all about him," Ronan says. "I hear he's very brave."

"Heis,"Isabella gushes, and just like that, she's his.

Ten seconds flat, no problemo.

It took me five years to earn that kind of trust and this man did it without even taking off his shoes.