Page 29 of One Night with Number Nineteen

He holds up the bag of chocolate chips, expression going wary. “I was going to make us hot cocoa.” He sets the bag down. “I can replace the chocolate if you need it.”

“No, I…” I shake myself. “You’re going to make it from scratch?” I ask. “I just usually use the packets.”

His expression relaxes. “It’s only two ingredients, Pages, and it tastes a helluva lot better than the powder crap.”

“Really?” I ask and his mouth quirks.

“Sit,” he orders. “And enjoy the wonders of homemade hot cocoa.”

I laugh.

Then sober.

“You know you don’t have to do this, right?”

He’s a busy man and I’m sure he didn’t want his entire evening to be eaten up by fisticuffs in the parking lot and babysitting a grown woman.

“I know,” he says and turns, pouring milk into a saucepan and turning on the stove. “Tell me,” he says a moment later, “is Ollie excited about Christmas?”

I laugh. “So excited. Especially about his ever-changing Christmas list. I swear we must have sent a dozen letters to Santa already.”

“What’s on his list?” Sawyer asks as he stirs the milk slowly, steadily, evenly.

Like Sawyer himself.

“Legos and books and magnet tiles and a new race car bed”—my lips twitch—“and today he added something called a Grumpimal? They have this adorably grumpy penguin and because his name is Ollie too, my Ollie clearly needed it in his life. Unfortunately, they’re sold out, so I had to do some damage control there.” I sigh and shake my head. “It’s not like I’m going to go over the top, but I love Christmas and it’s his first one since…”

“So you want to make it special,” he supplies.

“Yes,” I whisper. “That.”

“You’re a good mom, Pages.”

“Thanks,” I say, still whispering, wanting to ask him about the nickname.

But it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?

He sets a mug in front of me, then grabs the other one and leans back against the counter.

The silence stretches and I pick it up, take a sip.

Then look at him in surprise. “This is really good.”

He chuckles. “I’m glad you like it.”

The quiet falls again.

At least until his phone buzzes. Again.

“You can get that,” I say.

He silences it, tucks it back away. “It can wait.” Then as I’m processing how good that feels—for someone to choose being in this moment with me, he asks, “Will you tell me about him?”

I freeze, stomach twisting as I run my finger along the outside of the mug, tracing nonsensical patterns on the porcelain. “About Ben?”

“Yeah.” He sets his mug down. “But if you don't want to talk about him, I get that, too.” The words are even, contained, almost expressionless, but there's something in his eyes that makes me want to open up.

Some part of me that trusts him.