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There were a lot of things about the offer that appealed, a lot that made for a convincing argument, but the thing that did it was hearing his name in her mouth.
It wasn’t said in anger or frustration. It wasn’t said with the businesslike tone she’d used when he’d first shown up in her office, or with the pity that had been there when she’d told him she was getting married.
This was his Ella, saying his name with warm familiarity. Almost like he still belonged to her.
* * *
The house was warm, soft lights glowing from lamps on the side table in the living room. A blanket was tousled on the sofa, a laptop open on the coffee table next to a handful of file folders with paper spilling out.
“I’ll get you a towel,” she said, setting the umbrella by the door.
He’d gotten soaked on his way from the car to the house — no way would he let Ella get wet in the name of giving him coverage under the umbrella — and he waited while she made her way down the hall.
She came back a moment later and handed him a thick towel. “I was just going to have a cup of tea. Want to join me? Then I can show you to the guest room.”
He nodded. “Tea sounds nice.”
He toweled off his hair while he followed her into the kitchen. “I didn’t say it before, but this is a nice place, Gabriella.”
The long version of her name sounded strange coming from his own mouth. He’d never called her that when they were kids. Not once.
She smiled as she filled the kettle on the stove. “You don’t have to call me that. I was being a brat.”
“You were right to call me out on it,” he said. “You’re not a girl anymore. You deserve to be called whatever you want to be called.”
She pulled down two mugs and two tea bags. “Chamomile okay?”
“Fine,” he said.
“This is a nice house,” she said. “But sometimes I wonder if it’s really me.”
He couldn’t hide his surprise. “Looks like you to me.”
“Does it?” she asked, meeting his eyes.
He thought about it. “It looks like Gabriella Perez, yes.”
“And who is Gabriella Perez?” she asked him.
He lifted his eyebrows. “Prosecutor extraordinaire and PTA mom?”
She laughed. “I don’t have time to be a PTA mom. I think all the other moms at Leo’s school hate me.”
“That would be impossible,” Logan said. “They don’t know you. If they did, they wouldn’t hate you.”
She leaned on the counter, resting her weight on her forearms. “How could they know me? I try to be there for the big stuff, but Bea’s the one who’s there every day, dropping him off and picking him up, talking to the teacher when Leo is struggling with something, bringing in the class’s favorite snack when it’s our turn.”
The note of sorrow in her voice wasn’t entirely unfamiliar. She’d always been hard on herself, always focused on the one thing she couldn’t conquer instead of the hundred she did.
”But you love your work.” That much was obvious.
“I do, but…”
“But?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. First women were told they couldn’t have it all. Then we were told we could, and then we wonder why we feel guilty and burned out when we don’t. Sometimes I wonder if they had it right the first time. We can’t have it all. No one can.”
“What do you do with that?” he asked.
