Sammy opens her mouth like she’s about to decline when Lara comes bounding over to her side. “Mommy, please can we go?Lincoln hasone thousandPokémon cards. I really want to see them.”
Daphne bursts out laughing. “Not that many. But he’s got a lot. You should see them.” She turns to me. “Brady, you’re coming, right?”
“I’ll be there.” Suddenly, I’m psyched about a Sunday evening barbecue at Jake and Daphne’s.
“Great, then. Brady, you bring your potato salad. Sammy, don’t bring anything. Just you and Lara.”
“Yay, yay,” Lara cheers.
Daphne walks with Sammy and Lara across the field toward the parking lot. I turn to the piles of equipment on the bench.
Why the hell am I this psyched about getting an evening in the same place as Sammy?
Desire for a woman like I haven’t felt in ages.
I need to get my head screwed on straight. Sammy’s an arson victim. She’s a single mom. There's no chance of us being more than friends. I've got to stop thinking about her and set my sights back on the dating apps.
Chapter Three
JakeandDaphne’sgreatroom hums with conversation and laughter, with the sounds of utensils on plates and drinks being placed on tables. A bunch of guys cluster around the TV where a baseball game is playing on mute.
What seems like the majority of Whispering Pines’ thirty- and forty-somethings sit around the long dining room table or huddle at the kitchen island. Lara and the other kids already inhaled their ribs and chips and took their antics upstairs.
No one is looking in my direction as I return from the bathroom. This is my opportunity to slip outside for a breather. I need peace and quiet. I haven't been around this many childhood friends since I left Whispering Pines two decades ago.
We’ve been catching up, sort of. They fill me in on their lives, and I talk about how different LA is from Whispering Pines. Nobody asks about Mark or the divorce. No one seems curious, or to give a damn, about how I’ve handled single motherhood. They’ve all been wonderfully sympathetic about the fire without using the wordarson.
I’ve gotten compliments galore on the pearl barley salad I brought, even though it turned out horribly. I thought the challenge of cutting vegetables evenly and making an Italian dressing from scratch would be a good way to fill my time while I mentally sort through all the scenarios for rebuilding the retreat.
Or should I bother? Should we call it quits and move back to LA?
Turns out I was too distracted to cut anything evenly, and the amount of pepper in the dressing is criminal. But it's edible, and I don't want anything to go to waste. I knew no one at Jake and Daphne’s barbecue was going to be impolite about the extra-spicy dressing. They may mention something to one another when I’m not around, but to my face, they’re all smiles.
Hell, I would’ve served it in LA, too. No one would do more than nibble. They’d barely taste the dressing thanks to whatever injections they’re on.
Not feeling any eyes on me, I slip out the side door to the deck. It’s about twenty-degrees cooler out here. Scents from the smoker and the grill linger on the crisp autumn air.
I sit on the porch swing. The night is still and quiet, but the cold is almost too much. If only I had a blanket and a beer or hot chocolate.
“Hey.”
A little miffed my peace has been disturbed, I turn toward the voice.
It’s Brady, the too-hot firefighter. We said hello when I first arrived. Then I did my catching up, and he went outside to barbecue with the guys. I checked for a wedding ring when we were eating. The finger was bare. He also didn’t seem to be with anyone.
Not that his status matters. I’m not looking for romance. I don’t need another person to take care of or another project totake on. But he made me break out in a full-body sex flush. That hasn't happened in ages.
The light from inside the house turns him into a broad silhouette with longish hair that looked fantastic hanging out from under the baseball cap he wore at T-ball practice. He folds his arms across his chest. He’s got on a soft-looking button-down that I’d bet smells like manly soap.
“I saw you leaving the party. I thought it might be okay to check in and see how you're doing?”
At the risk of playing with fire—or the nearly overwhelming urge to throw myself at Brady, I make room for him on the porch swing. “Thanks for coming out. Have a seat.”
Damn, just as I thought, he smells like rich, woodsy soap. He said he wanted to check in with me, but I'm tired of talking about me. I face handsome Brady. “You seem to know everyone in Whispering Pines.”
He nods. “It's possible.”
“The guys must worship you because you played professional baseball.”
