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I’m touched by how willing he was to help my nephew.
I’m honored by the tiny little window he gave me into his past.
And all that adds up to… is a shit-ton of attraction that I have no idea how to process.
Worse yet… no idea how to stop.
* * *
“Reagan, honey, eat your peas.”
“Ihatepeas.”
I fix her with a stern glance. “We don’t use that word in this house.”
Her bottom lip sticks out and Josh drags his chair a little closer to her. “Eating peas can be fun, Rae. Look.” He grabs a pea off her plate and tosses it in the air. Then he leans forward with his mouth open and it plops right in. “See?”
Reagan’s face twists into delight. “Do it again!”
He shakes his head. “You gotta try it this time.”
She gives her plate an uncertain grimace but she takes a pea. Of course, the first one lands on the table instead of her mouth. But, three tries later: “I did it!” she cries while Josh, Caroline, and I applaud like she just won Olympic gold. She chews happily and hums a song.
I snort with laughter and give Josh a grateful wink. It never ceases to amaze me how tactful he is with the girls. More like a parent than an older brother sometimes. It’s even more apparent after dinner, when the girls run into the living room to crawl into their pillow fort while Josh stays in the kitchen to help me clean up.
His head barely reaches over the sink. But there he stands, balancing on his tiptoes as he rinses out the plates.
“Hon, I can manage. You don’t need to wash up.”
He shrugs. “I don’t mind.”
No, but I do.
“Hey, Josh?” He glances over at me and grunts that he’s listening as he continues to scrub silverware. “What do you wanna do this weekend?”
With a shrug, he mumbles, “I dunno. Whatever the girls want to do.”
I toss him the dish towel and gesture for him to join me at the kitchen table. “We’re always doing things that the girls want. I believe that pillow fort in the living room was their idea. And I’m ninety-nine percent sure you weren’t the one who suggested the tea party last week. So this weekend is your weekend. You get to pick.”
He just shrugs again, completely noncommittal. I blink at my eight-year-old nephew as a rogue tear comes to my eye. Where did the happy boy go? Right on the mantel is a picture of him, a fat-cheeked Josh with a huge, toothless grin as he swatted at a balloon tied to his stroller. Where’s that boy? Who is this solemn little man standing in his place?
When did I lose him?
“What if we went to the park and had a picnic, all of us together?”
Josh’s eyes go wide. “Dad, too?” There’s an edge of panic in his voice.
“Oh, well, I wasn’t necessarily thinking of your dad. Unless youwantto ask—”
“No!” he says fiercely. “I don’t want Dad to come.”
His hands are balled into fists, his entire body wound tight with tension. Something about it just feels so wrong to me. He shouldn’t have feelings this big, this thorny, this dark.
“Then we don’t have to invite him.” I put my hand on Josh’s shoulder. His trembles run through me as his eyes dart to mine, then away again. “He’s not invited, okay?”
He nods and I bite down on my tongue to keep the tears from spilling over. “Why don’t you go get ready for bed, sweetheart? I have a quick call to make and then I’ll come tuck you in.”
The moment he leaves the kitchen, I grab my phone and scramble through the window onto the fire escape. I dial in Ruslan’s number—embarrassingly, I know it by heart—and wait for him to pick up. I start babbling as soon as he answers.
