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“I just…I don’t see how you’d want to be my friend.”
“How about the woman I take out on a date?”
She choked, rocking back on her heels, nearly tearing those hairs out from her scalp, considering he hadn’t been able to let them go, was rubbing the coffee-colored strands between thumb and forefinger, amazed at how they felt like silk. “Wh—I—”
He grinned, decided to change the subject after that one clearly threw her for a loop. “Don’t order pizza,” he said, slipping the phone from her grasp, “and don’t Instacart in more napkins”—he glanced at her screen—“ormore chocolate.” That had laughter bubbling up in his throat, but he swallowed it down. “We have more than enough junk food to feed an army.”
“Cole uses that brand for nighttime low blood sugars,” she whispered. “It’s like medicine for him.”
Connor’s heart squeezed.
His brother’s son had type one diabetes. It was a hell of a diagnosis for a kid, one that affected every aspect of Cole’s life and shoveled on responsibility. When to eat, what to eat, how much to eat, what order to eat in, forced to eat when he was nauseous because his numbers were low, injections for a kid who was scared of needles when technology failed, and his pump had an issue. Finger pricks to confirm his blood glucose levels. A device he had to wear twenty-four seven to do the same—but couldn’t always rely on. Cole lived like the little boy he was, mostly because Kim took the brunt of those decisions, but Connor hated that Cole couldn’t just dive into the dessert board without a series of decisions being made.
How many carbs was he loading on his plate?
How much would he actually eat?
Would those carbs hit fast or slow? Would there be a fat rise later?
An adrenaline high from seeing his cousins? Or would he go low from running around the house that used to be his—because Connor sure as shit didn’t miss that Raven hadn’t gotten to her furniture, but the playroom was stocked with copious amounts of trains and Legos and dolls and books and puzzles for the kids.
“Then order the candy, sweetheart.”
Her eyes went wide.
“I keep juice at my place,” he explained. “And Skittles. Mostly so I don’t eat all of his low snacks.” Chocolate was one of his favorite things on the planet, and the last thing he wanted was to take something Cole needed.
Chocolate and juice. Candy.
Aside from insulin, they were Cole’s medicine.
Raven gasped, reached for her cell. “I don’t have juice.”
He held it tight, tapped at the screen. “Juice. Napkins. Chocolate.” He swiped. “Coming in one hour. Now, friend—or really the woman I’m going to get to agree to go on a date with me—”
“Wh-what?” she sputtered, fingers clenching on the edges of the dessert board, sending the toppings shaking.
“Friend,” he said again, deciding not to push too far. Not right then, anyway. “Come help me with the chairs so we have somewhere for the masses to sit.”
Her eyes were wide.
Her lips parted.
But she released the tray, wiped her hands.
And together, they ensured there were six kitchen chairs assembled before the doorbell rang.
Seventeen
Raven
“He’s a looker,” Auntie Pat said, scooping up a strawberry and dipping it into the chocolate spread in the center of the mostly decimated board.
“Cole?” she said, snagging a pretzel stick and doing the same. “He’s an adorable little boy.”
Aunt Pat’s tight white curls bounced as she swung her head toward Raven. Then she scowled, perfectly applied red lipstick creasing as she glared. “Attitude?” she asked. “I drove four hours this morning and I’m going to drive four hours home and you’re giving me attitude?”
“I did offer up my guest room,” Raven pointed out, and she would have put the furniture together in it had she thought for one second that Pat would actually take her up on it.
