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“I have no idea what that means, but I’ll do my best.”
As I hang up with my mother, I finish tidying up my kitchen from the dinner I made for me and Ainsley. I’m not a good cook, but there are a few things I’ve mastered through the years. Two nights a week, Ainsley and I go out to dinner, somewhere refined, where she can learn how to sit like a lady and have manners, as any Hathaway should. Other nights, I have her in the kitchen, cooking with me, because, while I might be raising her with etiquette and against the social norms, I don’t want her to be reliant on a live-in maid to cook her meals, like my mother.
I walk around the living room and pick up the toys Ainsley has left around. Our townhome is quite lovely. A three-bedroom brick home with dark hardwood floors and white cabinetry. I keep it tidy with the help of the extra bedroom being a playroom for Ainsley. I look down the first-floor hall to the room Ainsley uses for her toys and playthings. It’s a sweet room. Pink walls with faux picket fencing and a mural of a fairy garden. It’s similar to her bedroom upstairs, except that one is a deep purple with hand-painted hot-air balloons over a magical land below.
While Ainsley plays with her stuffed animals, set up for a tea party, I put the laundry away. I’m in Ainsley’s room when the doorbell rings, and I look at the time, wondering who could be at my door this late on a Wednesday night. I look at the doorbell app on my phone to see who the visitor is, but it’s not working—hasn’t been for the past week.
“I’ll get it!” Ainsley’s voice squeaks from the floor below.
I call down to my daughter, “Wait. I’m not expecting company. That could be a package I have to sign for.”
As I’m jogging down the stairs, I hear her talking.
“Who are you?” Ainsley asks, which clearly means she opened the front door after I told her not to.
“I think I have the wrong address,” a man drawls.
I know that baritone voice—deep and gravelly, calm and smooth.
The hair on my arms rises, and my chest quickens.
I hadn’t heard it in five years, and then recently, the owner of said voice quasi-rescued me from being stranded at a restaurant in a non-panty-wearing night of abandonment.
“If you want 733 Cherry Street, this is it,” Ainsley states, having recently learned our address during a lesson on the importance of the post office in school.
I should be walking over there, but I’m currently frozen, stunned. Maybe Luke will get confused and walk away. I shouted my address at him the other night in his truck. Perhaps he’ll think he wrote it down wrong.
“I’m looking for Jillian Hathaway. Does she live here?”
Please say no.I send telepathic signals to Ainsley and hope some mother-daughter connection will help her hear me.Ainsley, remember what Mommy said about talking to strangers. Close the door and walk away.
“Yep! That’s my mom. Stay. I’ll get her. Mommy! There’s a man at the door for you!”
I slam my hand on my forehead and make a mental note to go over the importance of not talking to random men who show up at our front door. Stranger Danger 101 was clearly a failed lecture in the Hathaway household.
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
Luke is here.
Why is Luke here?
He shouldn’t be here.
But he is.
six
GET IT TOGETHER, JILLIAN.
I look in the mirror and take note of my beige jogging suit and topknot bun. I need to change. This makes the second occurrence in recent memory where this man is catching me looking less than my most fabulous self. I don’t want to impress him per se. It’s just when one sees the man who deserted her years ago, she usually prefers adon’t you wish you could have me backlook overyeah, sometimes, I wear this to bed and lounge in it all day because I’m too lazyensemble.
I take a deep, cleansing breath, dragging it down to my ribs in order to calm myself, then walk down the hall.
Ainsley is standing at the doorway. Her squished eyebrows match that of the man she’s staring up at.
“Hi,” I say, stepping in front of Ainsley and swooping her behind me. “Why are you here?”
Luke blinks back at me and shifts from one foot to the other. His arched brows are furrowed, and his full lips are pursed, as if he, too, doesn’t know why he’s here. In his hands is the gold ice bucket. I haven’t seen it since he walked me out of the restaurant and tossed it into the backseat of his truck.
