My mother used to tell me and my brother, Brantley, to always pay attention to people’s eyes. She claimed they could often tell you more than the person ever could.

I always knew my mother was wise, but today, her words rang so undeniably true that I felt like she was beside me, whispering, “See, Becket? I told you.”

Often, when I gaze into Ivy’s eyes, I witness a myriad of emotions. A yearning, a gut-wrenching sadness, and pain.

But for a few moments today, I witnessed something else. Something that made me promise myself I’d do whatever magic it took to put that same look in her eyes.

Happiness.

“I don’t know how you do it.” There’s a hint of wonder in her voice.

“It’s exhausting but fun.”

Both girls have now been picked up. Dax scooped up Violet, his niece who likes me more than him, hence the sleepover requests.

Okay, so maybe that’s not entirely true. Dax helps out his single-mom sister with Violet, who happens to love coming over and hanging out with Emilia—and Daisy, too, of course—when I babysit.

“Remind me again how Emilia’s related to you.”

Laughter escapes my lips at Ivy’s request. “She’s not.”

She flashes me an amused look. “Why am I not surprised?”

Playfully, I nudge her shoulder with my own. “I went to college with Presley, her mom. She’s my chiropractor as well.” With a half shrug, I add, “We stayed friends and kept in touch.”

Ivy clears her throat, and I already know what her next words will be since both Presley and her formidable-looking husband, Hendy, came to pick up Emilia. Especially since it’s hard not to notice the scarring on Hendy’s face.

“And her husband?” Her words are tentative, polite.

“He’s a former SEAL.”

“Oh.”

She doesn’t say more, but I feel compelled to explain because these people are my family, albeit not necessarily blood-related.

“Hendy was captured and tortured on his final mission. He’s been through hell and back.” I inhale deeply because I still can’t fathom anyone enduring what he’s had to. “He’s a good guy and great to Pres.” My lips curve up into a grin, and I turn to Ivy. “But don’t tell him I said that. I like to give him shit, so he doesn’t go all soft on me.”

She shakes her head and rolls those gorgeous blue eyes at me.

I reach for her hand. “Come on. I never got to give you the two-cent tour.”

She follows me up the stairs, and I show her around. I point toward the end of the hall opposite where we stand.

“Typical spare bedrooms are down there.” I gesture to the open door behind me. “This is my office that really doesn’t get much use.”

Shit. I never realized how egotistical this room looks. Mom had insisted I display my trophies and awards somewhere. I’d never been one who wanted to gloat about my achievements and shove it down people’s throats, so I figured this room was the safest bet.

I wince. “Uh, yeah. It’s a pretty boring room…” But it’s too late. She’s already stepping inside, flipping the light switch to better illuminate what Dax has dubbed my “I love me” room.

Yeah. He gives me shit for it all the time.

“Wow. Two of these?” she muses, peering up at the Heisman Trophies perched on a shelf.

I run a hand over the back of my neck, uneasy with the attention. “That was a long time ago.”

Ivy’s head whips around, and she stares at me, surprised amusement etching her features. Gesturing to my Super Bowl rings, she quirks an eyebrow. “And what about these fancy rings, here?”

In an attempt to change the subject, I flash her a wide, suggestive smile. “My bedroom’s right across the hall here.” I wave my hand in its direction. “Want to see where all the magic happens? And when I say magic, I mean sleep.”

She makes a derisive sound. “Right.” Before I can protest the fact that, yeah, I actually get more sleep than sex in that room, she peers at one of the framed awards hanging on the office wall. “Best karaoke singer ever.” Her eyes are alight with interest. “Do tell.”

God, I hate this. Why did I even point out this room to begin with?

“Those are the awards from the Children’s Cancer Institute.” I draw in a deep breath. I point to the one on the far left. “Cole is now eleven. He’s been in remission for the past four years and loves old Beastie Boys songs his dad got him hooked on.” I gesture to the middle one. “That one is from Adeline when she was almost six, and she was still firmly entrenched in her Taylor Swift obsession.”

The frame on the right is one I wish had a different ending. “That’s from”—I clear my throat, hating the huskiness my voice takes on from the emotional memories—“Evan. He, uh, always wanted to learn to play the piano.” I clench my jaw at how unfair it is that cancer took his life so soon. “The two of us buckled down to learn to play ‘Love Me Tender’ by Elvis Presley on his little Casio keyboard while he was in the hospital. Unfortunately, he…” I trail off with a shake of my head.

“I’m sorry,” she replies gently. There’s a brief pause. “What about this?”

I know it’s her attempt to talk about something lighter, but what she’s pointing at is both my most favorite “award” and the one with the most painful memories attached to it. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to overcome such an immense loss.

“Favorite Son Award?” Ivy turns to me in question with a small hint of a smile playing on her lips.

Fuck.

I scrub a hand down my face roughly. “Ivy,” I begin.

“You know what?” she offers suddenly. “Never mind. I’m sorry. I’m being nosy and—”

I gently encircle her wrist with my fingers. “Hey.”

Her eyes meet mine, her expression one of nervous hesitancy.

“That’s from my mom.” I avert my eyes, instead focusing on the award. “She made that for me as a joke. It ended up being the last note she wrote me before she died.”

Ivy pulls her wrist from my grasp enough to lace her fingers with mine, giving my hand a quick squeeze. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Don’t be.” I drag in a deep, calming breath. With a tiny chuckle, I gaze at the framed paper. “I always gave her shit about how I was her favorite son. Brantley, my brother, and I both did, and she’d always play along. When she had me alone in a room, or we were on the phone, she’d say, ‘Now you know you’re my favorite, Becket. Just don’t tell your brother.’

“Of course, she’d say the same to Brantley.” I shake my head with a laugh. “And this”—I reach up to carefully remove the framed note from the wall and bring it close—“is what she made just before she passed.”

Ivy sidles closer, her fingers tightening their grip on our joined hands, and the comfort I immediately feel is surprising. Especially since I haven’t known her very long.

“She called us into the hospital. She’d been brought in mainly because of dehydration, and the doctors had even said she was reacting well to cancer treatment.” The memory of that day floods my mind. “But, somehow, Mom knew. Said it was time. That she’d fought long enough and she was simply…tired.” I swallow hard past the massive lump in my throat and fight the tears that prick my eyes. “She said, ‘Becket, you finally got your ass in gear and helped your team win the Super Bowl. Brantley has a wonderful boyfriend and loves his job. I feel good leaving you both now.’

“Then she smiled and squeezed my hand and said, ‘Find yourself a wonderful woman who loves you for the amazing man you’ve become.’ Then she got this serious look on her face, and it worried me.” I break off with a choked laugh. “She whispered, ‘She’d better not be a floozy who can’t cook or bake either.’”

Ivy’s light laughter reaches my ears, and I finally brave a glance over at her.

“She died in her sleep that night.”

“Becket,” she whispers raggedly, her eyes mournful.

I replace the frame on the wall with care and drag a hand along the tight muscles of the back of my neck. “So that’s why this one gets its own wall space. Because all that”—I gesture to my athletic awards and trophies on the opposite side of the room—“means nothing compared to this right here.”

Silence hangs over us for a beat before I do my best to shake it off. Arching my eyebrows, I smirk. “So…care to see where the magic really happens, now, Miss Hayes?”

Ivy shoves at me playfully, an easy laugh spilling from her lips. And just like that, the mood lightens. I show her around the lower level of the house, into the game room with the pool table and the small piano that’s off in one corner.

Ivy stops short when she sees it. “Oh, wow.” There’s an odd hint of something in her voice that almost sounds…haunted.

“I only play a little.” I advance to the piano and lower myself onto the bench. Tentatively, Ivy stands beside the baby grand. “This was my mom’s. She taught piano lessons on the side.” I place my fingers above the keys before I abruptly stop and glance over at her. “You won’t think less of me as a man if I play a Pink song, will you?” I tease.

She carefully props a hip against the piano with a sassy grin. “Depends on which one.”

With our eyes locked, I begin to play the beginning notes of Pink’s “Glitter in the Air” and watch as her expression shifts when she recognizes the song. I’m no singer, but I can occasionally carry a tune here and there. I hum my way through most of it and softly murmur the words at other times while I play.

Ivy shifts and slides onto the spot on the bench to my left. A time or two throughout the song, I glance over and find her eyes closed as if she’s absorbing the sound of the music and my voice. I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed anyone get lost in the music as she does.

Once I play the final note, I remove my fingers from the keys and sit back.

“That’s it.”

Ivy’s eyes flare open. “That’s it?”

“That’s all I’ve got in my bag of tricks to impress you.”

A crease pops up between her brows as she appears disappointed. “Oh. Well, then.” She rises from the bench, lets out a sigh, and gives me a little wave. “Nice knowing you, Jones.”

“Dammit.” I hang my head dejectedly. “Knew I should’ve done ‘Chopsticks’ instead.”

When she tips her head back on a laugh, I feel my damn heart lurch as if it’s screaming, “I’m with her!”

With the one woman who doesn’t believe in relationships.

The woman who breaks up relationships for a living.

This can only mean one thing.

I’ve got to bring my best A-game to the table to ensure I’m not the one getting ditched in the end.