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I look down, adjust the aloe bottle in my hand, and try to swallow down my nerves. I only gather the courage to peer up at him again when he says my name.
“Chloe—”
I panic and hold out my hand. “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. Let’s just…let’s keep things like they are, okay?”
I’m so scared of what’s about to come out of his mouth. It could be anything: Listen, weirdo, you’ve made this all really difficult; we’ve crossed a line; I don’t feel comfortable having you in my home anymore. Something like that is coming, I know it. It’s why he looks so remorseful, like he’s already queuing up his apology.
But fortunately, if he’s planning to send me packing, I’ve apparently stalled him at least for another day because he nods in agreement. Then he steps back.
“Hopefully that helps,” he says, pointing to the lotion.
I hold it up. “Yeah, it will. Thanks.”
I close my door, squeeze my eyes shut, and try to figure out how it’s possible to wipe the last few minutes from my memory.
TWELVE
LUKE
I go to sleep with visions of Chloe in her bikini dancing in my head like she’s the goddamn Sugar Plum Fairy in an X-rated rendition of The Nutcracker. I try a different position, rolling onto my side, but she’s still there, hot as hell.
Worse, I’m not even remembering her with rose-colored glasses or dreamy delusions. She was absolutely sucker-punch-to-the-gut sexy in her white bikini. I must have made a complete fool of myself when we arrived back from the beach. Harper was chattering on with her by that lounge chair, but I doubt I put two words together: me, hi, beach, we, back.
I stumbled out onto the porch, saw her, and froze. It was all too much for my brain to compute at once: her bare skin, slender calves, curled toes. I looked at her stretched across the lounge chair like I was standing in front of the Mona Lisa, admiring every inch. Then I remembered that I was fawning over my very young employee in the presence of my child, and I gave myself a stern rebuke and looked away. Up to the sky, a swaying tree, a passing bird—I would have stared right at the sun if only it would have saved me from being an inappropriate asshole.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, Chloe confided in me about her last job, and it sounded like a really toxic situation. Now she’s landed here—out of the frying pan and into the fire with me. I looked up her boss at Fig & Olive. Miles Wilson is older than Chloe, yes, but younger than me. Younger. How’s that for a wakeup call?
I throw off my blanket and sit up, knowing my brain is intent on acting as a saboteur. If I keep lying here, daydreaming about Chloe in her bikini, I’ll slide a hand past the waistband of my boxer briefs and give in to the fantasy then feel like an absolute jerk for it in the morning.
Instead, I head out to the kitchen for a late-night snack. There, resting on the counter, is Chloe’s homemade focaccia bread. I tell myself I’ll just cut off a bite, but I black out from the sheer pleasure of the taste and nearly eat half before I come to.
How does she do it? How does she touch food and make it so special?
The next day, after breakfast, Harper gathers us into the living room to proclaim that today, we all have one collective goal.
“Lemonade stand,” Harper says, swiping her hand across the air above her head like the words are printed on a marquee.
She has Chloe and me sitting side by side on the living room couch. We haven’t so much as looked at each other since we sat down.
When Harper first called this “very important meeting!” I tried to sit on a chair in the corner. No. Harper needed us both on the couch so we could see her presentation clearly. Then when I tried to sit on the opposite end, far away from Chloe, Harper gave me a look that foreshadowed what an interesting time I’ll have parenting her through her teenage years. She mouthed, “Stop being weird!”
“Okay, so here’s the plan. We’re going to do a real lemonade stand, not this crap—”
“Harper.”
“Not this crud you see from other kids with no business sense.”
She slaps her marker against her presentation board. It’s completely covered in drawings and schematics, logo ideas, and potential menu offerings. She’s clearly put a lot of thought into this.
“Our goal?” Harper lifts a flap that was concealing a picture of an adorable golden retriever puppy. “Earn enough money to buy a dog.”
“No,” I answer simply. We’ve gone over this a thousand times. We’re not getting a dog right now. Maybe at some point in the future, but I have a hard enough time being responsible for one living thing at the moment, let alone two.
