My daughter waves a piece of carrot at me and I smile. “Thank you, Sophie, but I’m going to make something for me and Dante.” A cloud appears on her face. “And you can have some of that, too, when it’s ready, but I didn’t want you to wait that long.”

Pacified, she goes back to her sandwich while I try to decide what to fix for dinner. On the one hand, Dante belongs to a big Italian family and, evidently, likes to cook, so I shouldn’t try my hand at spaghetti or lasagna. On the other hand, those are two foods that I know my daughter will eat.

“I’m making spaghetti,” I announce. “Don’t shoot me if you don’t like it.”

“No complaints here. Let me know if you need a hand.”

Everything is stored in very logical places -- the way I’d organize my own kitchen if I had one. Maybe that comes from running the parts store, or maybe he’s just naturally good at it. In seconds, I have water boiling and a pan out for the sauce.

“You can make the garlic bread if you want,” I say absently.

He doesn’t respond, but moments later I feel him in the kitchen behind me. I don’t hear him until he starts opening cupboards. We work in peaceful silence, sometimes passing each other, and every time we’re that close the very cells in my body tremble.

I half expect him to butt in on the cooking — taste my sauce and offer critiques — but he doesn’t. I put together a salad once everything else is underway, and Dante sets the table. “You want a glass of wine?” he asks.

“No. Thank you.” I feel his eyes on me, but don’t look his way.

When everything’s done, we take our seats, me between Sophie and our host, but she’s not happy. “No, Mama.”

I frown at her, puzzled; I haven’t even served her any food yet. “No what?” She loves spaghetti, so it’s hard to believe she’s developed a sudden aversion to it.

“Tontay.”

“He’s having the spaghetti too.”

“No, Mama!” She waves her arms and kicks her legs in agitation.

I’m usually pretty good at figuring out what my daughter wants, but I’m completely baffled. I look back and forth between her and Dante — and then she stretches out her hand toward him, and it hits me.

“You want Dante to sit close to you too?”

“Tontay!” This time beaming.

I shoot him a look. “You don’t have to move if you don’t want to. She’ll live.”

He doesn’t say a word, but he shifts around the table, plate, place setting and all, until he’s on the other side of her. I focus on cutting up some spaghetti noodles for her, not sure how to respond to this development.

Dante’s good with her, apart from the swearing, and I always appreciate people who are kind to me and my girl. On the other hand, I’m worried about Sophie getting too attached to him and what it will do to her when we have to move on.

I’ll have to talk to him about it once she’s asleep. Make it clear that it’s better for all of us if he doesn’t encourage her or pay special attention to her. And I’ll have to tell him the same thing about me, while I’m at it.

Getting involved with Dante would be a very bad idea. My libido’s all for it, but the rest of me knows better. It would just confuse Sophie.

“Good.”

I blink and focus on Dante. “Pardon?”

“The spaghetti. It’s good.”

He doesn’t sound like he’s just being polite. I flush with pleasure. “Thanks.”

After that, dinner is largely a quiet affair. Sophie talks to both of us, in her own fashion, and we answer her, but we don’t really talk to each other. I suspect Dante has caught my mood.

After dinner, we clean up the kitchen. Again, it’s powerfully disturbing to be that close to him, but I do my best to hide it. When we’re finished, I get started on Sophie’s bedtime routine.

Despite my fears that she wouldn’t go to sleep without me in the room, she settles down easily, already yawning. Her big day must have worn her out. BeeBee comes in and curls up on the floor by the crib, and I get that pang in my chest again.

I’m ready for sleep too, but first Dante and I have to get some things straight. When I go back out into the living room, he’s waiting for me, sitting on one end of the couch with his legs stretched out in front of him. I curl up in a nearby armchair that’s angled toward the couch and try to order my thoughts.

Dante beats me to it. “I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.”

“What?” I say, caught off guard. That is not on my agenda at all.

“You’re a good mom. You wouldn’t be taking your daughter on the road with no money and a car that’s on its last legs if you had any choice. Which means you’re running from something.”

Damn him and his brain. “I can’t talk about it.”

“Heather.” He waits until, reluctantly, I raise my eyes to his. “Whatever it is, I’ll help you. But you gotta trust me, and I say that because you gotta trust someone.

“Disappearing takes money. Travel takes money, plus decent transportation. Without resources, you’re a sitting duck, and so’s your girl.”