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“I thought...if you’d agree...I could work for you two hours every afternoon when I finish my shift at Superior Courier Service. I could give you at least ten hours a week.”

I considered his offer—the sacrifice Weston was willing to make—and I was proud of him. “Sure. That works for me. You might want to hit up my father at Aames Investments for a corporate sponsorship, along with Edmond’s law firm, Chaney & Associates, and any other contacts you have. I mean, you probably know people through your folks who would be willing to sponsor you. I’d suggest you use those contacts to your advantage. You could create signs naming them as sponsors and affix them to the sides of the camper for free advertising.”

We continued to eat, West only nodding as I spoke regarding the list. I wanted to hear his words, but I could see he was trying to learn from me.

I felt unworthy of offering anyone advice regarding their life choices when I’d lived my own without truth to the point my husband cheated on me with a much younger guy. It was because I hadn’t actually loved him as he needed to be loved, and while I was prickly about his dishonesty, I took my share of the blame.

Weston was owed the time his father gave me—though not in the same way. Claude had no romantic interest in me. I couldn’t say the same about my interest in his son. Was it sick that I found someone so young so attractive? I was still trying to decide. The answers were fucking with my head.

I stood in my studio adjusting the calipers on a bike for a client. My phone chimed as it lay on the work bench, so I walked over to check it. It was the Fourth of July, and there would be celebrations all over the city. I wasn’t exactly excited about any of the mayhem it would bring.

I walked over to the drafting table, seeing Weston Aames’ name on the phone screen. I wanted to ignore it to give him more time to think, but something inside me made me pick it up. “Hey.”

“Hi. It’s me, Weston Aames. How are you?” His voice sounded as if he was concerned.

“I know. Your name comes up on my phone screen. How are you, Weston?” We’d last spoken in late June. We didn’t speak regularly, but he was always on my mind. His smile hypnotized me, though I couldn’t say it to him or anyone else.

“I’m good, Bridges. I just wanted to touch base. How are you?” West sounded more than concerned.

“Why don’t you come over for dinner? I’d love to hear about how you’re doing with building up time on your route. How about six this evening?”

“Maybe we could ride our bikes somewhere to watch the fireworks?” His voice sounded so hopeful, and something inside me told me I couldn’t let him down.

“That sounds great. How about five? I know this great place a few miles away so we can eat and then ride across the bridge to watch the fireworks. That sound good?”

Weston was silent at the other end of the line, but I waited. Sometimes, he didn’t seem to know what to say. “Uh, sure. I’d love it. Where should I meet you?”

I huffed a breath. It was time for me to come clean. “Come to the studio. I have something for you.”

“I can bring us food. You like charcuterie? There’s this really great little market just before I cross the bridge to Brooklyn.” West’s voice sounded hopeful, and I couldn’t let him down.

“Sure. I love salami and cheese. See you later.” The call ended, and I had a warm spot in my chest. If Weston was coming to my house to go see fireworks—even though I really had no interest—I was glad.

Chapter Seven

Weston

On my way to Bridges’ neighborhood, I stopped at a little specialty food shop in DUMBO—Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass—and asked the owner, a very nice woman named Ava, to suggest some moderately priced cheeses, sausages, crackers, and a bottle of wine, which were easier to maneuver on my bike than beer and pretzels. I was wearing a backpack, but I had saddlebags, too.

Ava was quite helpful, paring samples of different cheeses and meats with a nice white wine that was within my budget—a few steps down from what my parents used to serve at their dinner parties, but tasty, nonetheless. The samples she gave me had a lot of potential, and I hoped they were to Bridges’ liking.

I arrived at Eaton Cycles, my heart hammering nearly out of my chest. I was attempting to build a somewhat-fragile relationship with the owner of the business and the man of my dreams, and I was trying to be cautious about it.

The shadow of my father was ever present as I rode to Eaton Cycles, but I wanted to be more to Bridges than just Claude’s son. Having Bridges feel obligated because I was his mentor’s son wasn’t my goal.

I wanted Bridges to truly see me as someone he might want to... I couldn’t articulate precisely what I wanted him to see, but I knew it was something more than just a member of the Aames family. I wanted him to get to know me—Weston Aames—for the person I’d grown to be. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Bridges held the ability to tear me apart, though I was fairly certain he didn’t know it. I had to guard against giving him that power or I’d have my heart ripped from my chest.

There was an age gap between us that seemed to make Bridges uncomfortable, but I refused to allow his hesitancy to see me as an adult to be the wedge between us. The numbers he seemed to hold so precious were stupid.

God, it was all so fucked up. The life my parents lived verses what my father left behind for Mom and me. My mother—who was so much stronger than I’d ever believed her to be—was making her own way in the world. I was trying to mirror her courage, but I wasn’t sure I could make the cut. I was trying.

I parked my bike in front of Eaton Cycles and rang the bell at the front door. The woman I’d met before answered and smiled. “Hello, Mr. Aames. You’ll find Bridges upstairs in the apartment. You can bring your bike in if you’d like.”

She stepped aside so I could go into the building. I pushed down the kickstand and took off my helmet, hanging it over the handlebars. I turned to the woman, Alexis. “Thank you.”

“I’m sure you know the way up. Have a good evening.” What was that supposed to mean?