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“I’ll take over, pumpkin.”
“It’s all right, Dad. I’ve got it.”
He snatches the sponge from my hand. “Go on, Celeste. No point pretending. I know the signs well enough.”
My heart rate spikes. “What are you talking about?”
My dad levels me with the look. I’ve seen it countless times, and it always means the same thing. He isn’t buying my bullshit.
Sighing, I turn off the water and relinquish my spot at the sink. “I won’t be long.”
He grunts in acknowledgment.
I don’t know whether to be touched that he knows me so well—an assumption that would have enraged me as a teen—or embarrassed that apparently now, at thirty-three, it’s still obvious when I want to sneak out back.
I snag a beer from the fridge and a blanket from the hook near the back door, then head outside. A breeze drifts around me, marrying the scents of neighborhood grills with pine. The sky is a patchwork of orange, magenta, and fading blue.
Bypassing the chaise, I head for the fence, feeling oddly detached from my own mind.
Why am I doing this?
Before I can stop myself, I step up on a rock and peer over. Lucas sits at an elegant outdoor dining table, alone, his head down as he types on his phone.
“Who are you talking to?” I ask.
To my disappointment, he doesn’t scream bloody murder. He must have heard me coming.
“Your mom,” he says mildly. He tucks his phone away and looks up. “How was dinner?”
“Excellent. How bad did you burn your steaks?”
“Nice try. They were perfect.”
A gust of wind hits me. I shiver. Putting my beer on the top of the fence, I yank the blanket around my shoulders.
“Is that for me, Peapod?”
The words are familiar, but the low, suggestive tone isn’t. My stomach dives, taking my pulse with it.
I’m playing with explosives. No matter how well I think I know this man, a lot can change in twelve years.
“Fat chance,” I retort. “Get your own.”
I hop off the rock and head to the far corner of the yard and the rusty bench beneath a vine-choked garden arch. As I sit to wait, thoughts float just outside my reach. Go inside. Stay away from him. Nothing good will come of this. But I can’t feel the emotions attached to them. Instead, I feel almost giddy.
The fence creaks. He walks across the yard with an open bottle of beer in his hand and a half-smile on his face. I can’t help but notice he moves the same, with fluid, confident steps that made girls swoon and boys jealous. My vision doubles—boy, man, boy, man.
“Scoot,” he says, and I move over as far as the bench allows. But it’s not large, and when he sits, our hips brush. There’s no escaping the heat his body generates or his familiar scent.
I clear my throat, but Lucas beats me to it. “Your dad still drinking that swill?”
I pop open the can of generic beer and take a sip. “You’re just jealous.”
“That my palate has advanced past that of a fifteen-year-old?”
I roll my eyes. “Just because you drink fancy IPAs doesn’t mean you’re mature.”
We drink in silence for a minute.
