She’s avoiding me.

Romy always spends her mornings in my coffee shop, yet ever since she ran off last week, I haven’t seen so much as a hint of the beautiful bombshell. I went up to her apartment once, twice, but she never answered the door.

And I was sure she was at home.

I flick the switches on the coffee machine with more force than necessary. I saw the horrified expression on her face. Romy looked from my daughter to me then back again, a shocked understanding in her eyes, confusion clear in her words. You have a family. Every other time Romy’s seen me with Coco, B’s been there. Last week, she no doubt realized the truth: Coco is my daughter.

And she ran a goddamn mile.

It shouldn’t be so surprising. A plus-one package is probably the last thing she wants.

But I thought she was different.

I thought she might have been the one.

Memories flash through my mind like a highlights reel. Wiping the crumbs away from her mouth, longing to push my thumb inside. Her luscious lips sucking hard, as if they were wrapped around another part of me . . .

The bell above the shop door tingles.

“Daddy!”

Coco rushes through the café and behind the counter. She throws herself at my legs, squeezing hard.

I smile, some of the tension loosening from my shoulders. It’s hard to stay angry when she’s around. “Hey, baby girl. You ready for some pumpkin picking?”

“Yes!” Coco gives a little jump.

B smiles. “It’s all she talked about on the drive over. Pumpkins, pumpkins, pumpkins.” She lets the door swing closed behind her and walks farther inside the bakery. “I can’t believe old man Thompson hasn’t tried to chase us off his land in what? Twenty-five years?”

“Something like that, yeah,” I reply. The old man in question is our parents’ next-door neighbor. Ever since me, my brother, and my sister were kids, he’s been letting us comb through his pumpkin patch at Halloween, searching for the perfect pumpkins to decorate in honor of the event. Now, even though his patch is substantially smaller, and we are substantially older, he welcomes us into his field, no questions asked.

“Thanks for letting me take the afternoon off.” B grins as she flips the shop’s Open sign to Closed. “I need the distraction. I’m struggling to make the perfect present for Nonna and Nonno’s anniversary.”

“You? Struggling?” I arch my eyebrows. My sister is the definition of capable.

“I just can’t seem to get the metalwork right.” She shrugs, her expression downcast.

“Maybe pumpkins will be your muse,” I suggest, and she laughs.

“Maybe. Did you invite Romy?” B asks, then turns her attention to the glass display. “Oh! Orange and poppy seed. May I?”

I take a paper bag from the top of the counter. “Of course. And no. I didn’t ask Romy.”

“Womy?” Coco asks. “Your fwiend with the dinoswaur top?”

“Daddy’s special friend with the dinosaur top,” B throws in, and I shoot her a look.

“Daddy would have liked her to be his special friend,” I growl. I always try to be brutally honest with Coco, but my four-year-old does not need to know all the ways I planned on making Romy feel “special.”

“Oh.” Coco’s lower lip sticks out. “So you aren’t fwiends anymore? Why?”

“Yeah.” B frowns. “Why aren’t you friends anymore?”

I shoot her a glare. How can I say this in front of my daughter? “Because, Coco, some people like . . .” I glance around the room, landing on the baked goods in front of me. “Some people like cupcakes. They see a future with lots of cupcakes in it, and that’s great.”

Coco nods, her eyes wide. “I wike cupcakes.”

“I know you do, cookie. I like cupcakes too. Very, very much.” I look to B for help but as usual, there’s none to be had. Instead, I land on the muffins in the display. Orange and poppy seed—one of Romy’s favorites. “And then other people like . . . muffins.”

“Womy likes muffins?”

“Yes,” I agree. “In fact, she loves muffins so much that she’s not willing to try cupcakes, even though that’s a deal-breaker on being a special friend for me.”

B’s eyes flick from me to the pastry cabinet, to Coco. She frowns, shaking her head. “I don’t follow.”

“Me either. Why don’t you lick the icing off your cupcake? Then it’s like a muffin and she can be your fwiend!” Coco exclaims.

Shit. Kid logic. I sigh. “Because even though the icing would be gone, it’d still be a cupcake. Romy won’t accept cupcakes. She doesn’t want the responsibility. And I need cupcakes in my life, just like I need you.” I reach down and hug my little girl, my world, meeting B’s eyes over her shoulder.

This time, my sister nods her understanding, but her face is still a mask of confusion. “Are you sure she’s not into cupcakes? Because I have a feeling—”

“Completely sure.” I straighten, sliding a muffin into a paper bag and handing it to B. I take another bag from the counter, Coco’s favorite chocolate cupcake already stuffed inside, and run my hands over my jeans, checking for my wallet, phone, and keys. “Now let’s get out of here. We have pumpkins to pick.”

“Yay!” Coco squeals and races toward the door.

“Elio, are you sure—"

“Let’s talk about it later,” I interrupt my sister, ushering her out into the cool afternoon air.

“Okay,” B says, surprisingly agreeable.

I turn the keys in the lock.

“Romy, hi! Over here!” B calls.

I jerk my head over my shoulder. My sister’s waving to the woman who rejected me—rejected us—and calling her over. Surprisingly agreeable my ass.

I take a deep breath and turn around. Guess I can’t avoid Romy forever.

She hugs B tightly, and damn, she’s as fucking stunning as she’s ever been. The autumn wind brushes her hair from her shoulders, sending strands of gold and brown behind her. Her lips, so full, so sweet—she worries at the bottom one with her teeth. What I wouldn’t give to steal it from her with my own, to suck it into my mouth and taste her.

But I can’t.

I can’t, because she doesn’t want to date a guy with a child.

And I really can’t blame her for that.

I lock my gaze on her face. “Hey, Romy.”

“Hi.” She looks at the ground, at her handbag, at the street—anywhere and everywhere but at me, and I don’t know why I want to wipe that guilty expression off her face, but I do. I place one hand on Coco’s shoulder, ready to usher her toward the car.

“It’s Womy!” Coco exclaims with a smile. Then her little face turns into a frown, her lips pouted. She folds her arms across her chest. “Why don’t you wike my daddy’s cupcakes?”

Romy looks, understandably, confused.

B leans against the door of her car parked right outside the bakery, an amused smile twisting her lips.

“I . . . I don’t have any problem with your dad’s cupcakes,” Romy finally addresses Coco, looking up to me as if I might have the answers.

“But Daddy said you only wike muffins. And that you’ll never wike anything but muffins.”

Romy shoots daggers at me. “You think I have a muffin problem?”

“No! God no.” I shake my head. “I love that you love muffins.” Watching her eat them is one of my favorite things to do.

Was.

Was one of my favorite things.

“Daddy said you only wike muffins. He said you only wike muffins, and that’s why you can’t be fwiends.”

Romy’s mouth moves as if she’s trying to find the right words. She meets my eyes, lowers her voice. “I—I like other things, too. I really liked the tart the other day, but it came with a side dish that left a bad taste in my mouth.”

She’s comparing my daughter to a bad taste?

My skin prickles. This is exactly the sort of woman I want to avoid. Women like her. Women like my ex.

“Coco, why don’t you hop in the car?” B says, and I shoot her a glare too because finally, she’s decided to intervene, and couldn’t it have happened sooner?

“’Kay. But Womy, wanna come pick punkins with us?” Coco asks, not letting it go. “I have a cupcake for my special treat, but Aunt B has a muffin. She’s weal good at sharwing.”

B looks like she might burst into laughter.

Romy looks like she wishes the ground would open up and swallow her whole.

“Coco . . .” I warn.

“Pwease, Womy?” Coco asks, ignoring me.

“I couldn’t.” Romy shakes her head. “Thank you very much for the invitation, but it sounds like you’re having some special family time with your aunt and Daddy. I don’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be intruding.” B smiles sweetly, avoiding my gaze. “In fact, I just got a text from a client I’m doing a special piece for. I’m going to have to cancel. I’m so sorry, Elio.” Her voice says she’s anything but. “Romy, if you can go, you’ll be doing Elio a solid—pumpkin picking’s a lot harder when there’s only two of you.”

“B . . .” I growl.

Romy bites her lip and turns back to my daughter’s hopeful face. “Sorry, sweetheart. I—”

“Don’t you want to be my fwiend?” Coco’s lower lip trembles.

Romy’s eyes widen. She drops to her knees, matching Coco’s height. “Of course I want to be your friend.”

“So you’ll come?” Coco asks.

I shake my head at Romy over my daughter’s shoulder, mouthing “You don’t have to do this.” It’s probably akin to her idea of torture.

“Pwease?” Coco asks again, a note of pure pleading in her voice, and lord, she’s a master manipulator, just like her mother—her lower lip actually wobbles.

“I . . .” Romy’s tone falters.

“Sounds like it’s settled, then. Come on, Coco. I’ll get you in Daddy’s car.” B smiles, holding out her hand for the little girl.

“Yay!” Coco squeals. She turns to me and grins, the gap between her teeth melting my heart a little, no matter how many times I see it. She rushes to my side, looking up at me and whispering in a not-so-quiet voice, “I fixed it, Daddy.”

My chest tightens. My little girl, always doing whatever she can to make me smile.

She links hands with B, and I press the button to unlock my car for them, parked in the alley to the side of the building.

Once they’re out of earshot, I turn to Romy again. Damn, she looks good. Her trench is pulled tight around her, and I want to unwrap it, want to unwrap her and discover that beautiful body underneath. I want to run my hands over the curves of her breasts, the swell of her ass, and feel her fall apart under my touch.

But I can’t.

And I need to start remembering that.

“Romy, I’m sorry. You really don’t have to come,” I say, now that we’re finally alone.

“I’m not the kind of woman who leads people on, Elio.” Her voice is frosty as she looks me in the eyes. “I told Coco I’d be there, so I’ll be there. Lead the way.”

I meet her cold stare with one of my own. I don’t know why she’s mad, but I can guess. She probably thinks I’m using my daughter to force her hand.

Little does she know that Coco is my world.

Everyone else comes second.