TESSA

“All right, you, get in bed.” I usher Charlie into his room with a stern face. It’s a motherly front I put on to make it seem like I mean business when, really, I want to snuggle with him on the couch.

“Can I please stay up just a little bit longer?” he begs.

I pull down his Superman bedspread. “It’s already an hour past your bedtime.”

“Grandma and Grandpa Mason let me stay up till nine,” he says as he crawls into bed.

I tuck the covers around him. “Why am I not surprised?”

Running my hand through his hair, I appraise my beautiful boy. Big blue eyes and a smattering of freckles on his cheeks, he looks like his dad, minus the red hair. That he gets from my mom before she let it go gray. Still, he is a Mason even though he has the Clarke last name.

“You really love them, don’t you?”

“Grandpa used to be a pilot!”

“I know.”

“And Grandma was a schoolteacher,” he states proudly.

“I know.”

“And Daddy is a world traveler.”

“Oh, Charlie.” I run my hand along his cheek and lay it on his heart. “I’m so happy you and the Masons are enjoying each other, but I don’t want you to get too attached to the idea your father is coming home.”

His little face curves in confusion as his lips jut out. “Is Daddy a bad man?”

“No.” My other hand tucks the tendrils over his ear.

It would be so easy to steer him away from idolizing Ashton, to taint his mind with all the negatives, but no matter how much I can’t stand the man who begged me to end my pregnancy, I know Charlie is better off with a positive view of his father. I don’t try to sugarcoat anything. I just don’t want him to ever grow up, feeling unwanted.

“No. Your dad … he’s a good guy. He’s …” I twist my lips as I think back to all the reasons I liked him once upon a time. “He’s funny. He can tell stories—big, animated stories. There was this comedy club in Los Angeles—” I pause for a second when Charlie’s face scrunches in. “It’s a place with a stage where people get up and tell jokes. Your dad liked to go on the stage and perform for a room full of people. He wasn’t a comedian. He just decided one day he wanted to give it a try. That’s the kind of guy he is. He’ll wake up one day and say he wants to climb Mt. Everest or learn how to surf in Kauai”—this is all way over Charlie’s head—“or work as a hot-dog vendor in New York.”

“I love hot dogs!”

I hang my head with a laugh. “I know, honey. What I’m trying to say is”—God, what am I trying to say?—“people say you should live life to the fullest. Your dad certainly knows how to do that. It might not be the way I want to live my life, but I suppose it’s really great that he’s living his best life.”

“I think I understand. Do you miss him?”

I inhale my surprise and exhale slowly. “No, honey, I don’t. Your dad has many great traits, but he’s not the best daddy. Does that make sense?”

He looks down and thinks about this for a moment. “Mrs. O’Leary says a good dad doesn’t have to be your father.” He sounds wise beyond his years. Until he asks with a silly eye roll, “What does that even mean?”

I kiss his forehead. “Gosh, you’re cute.” I try to think about how to explain this to a five-year-old. “What she means is, there are many people in your life who can do the dad stuff with you. Like me.”

“You’re not a boy, Mom. Dads are boys.”

“Really? I didn’t notice.” I tuck him in up to his neck and give him a kiss on each cheek, his nose, and his forehead. “I promise this will all make sense someday. Until then, I want you to focus on all the great men you have in your life.”

“Like Grandpa Mason.”

I sigh with a nod. “Yes. Like Grandpa Mason. Good night, Charlie. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

I turn on his nightlight, switch off the ceiling light, and leave the door propped open just a little. Another day, and I feel like I’ve done the best I can as a single mom.

Ever since Charlie was born, I’ve found myself second-guessing every decision I make. Am I providing a good enough life? Was living with my mother all those years good for him? Should I have moved away from her to try to make it on my own? Is he getting all of his vitamins? Does he have clean underwear? Does he really need the chicken pox vaccine even though generations of kids suffered and lived through the very disease?

I swear, it’s a vicious cycle of self-doubt that, once I lead down a certain train of thought, I get so off on a tangent that I then retrace my thoughts to figure out how I ever got to what I was thinking about.

While I’ve been plagued with sleepless nights, an unbalanced checkbook, and days where I just don’t know what to do, there’s one thing I’ll never regret—and he’s sleeping in Lego pajamas in his Superman bed.

With a smile at the thought of my sweet red-haired boy, I walk into the hallway and grab a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt from my closet. I change, toss my hair up in a bun, and scrub my face in the bathroom.

I’m in the living room and sprawled on the couch with a deep-cleaning face mask on and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked FroYo on my lap as I flip through the channels. There’s a Tudors marathon on TV, and I don’t hesitate to stop and get my Henry Cavill fill for the night, especially when it’s season one and he has a shaved head and that cocky attitude. Yes, this is how twenty-four-year-old women party on Thursday nights. Black mask on face, spoon in hand, historical fiction on the screen.

Henry Cavill is just about to get it on with the King of England’s sister when my cell phone chimes from beside me on the couch. I pick it up to see a text from Bryce.

Did you know, if a female ferret doesn’t have sex for a year, she’ll die?

I laugh, typing before I even think twice.

Once I hit Send, realization hits me. Hard.

Shit, why did I just basically tell him I haven’t had sex in a year? Six years to be exact.

When we saw each other at the coffee shop, I had no intention of contacting him. Then, when he sent the tree, it only seemed right to send a thank-you. I mean, Kathleen Clarke raised a feminist, but she raised a proper feminist with manners.

What I wasn’t planning on though was the banter. Texting with Bryce has been a fun outlet for me—one I didn’t know I’d enjoy so much. And I must say, he’s rather charming when he’s just words on a screen.

Do you like egg rolls?

No. Should it be? You pretty much just told me you’re celibate …

I have fish balls.

Why don’t you let me in?

No, I mean, physically let me in. I’m out front.

I jump up from the couch and race to my window. There, in the shadow of a streetlight, I see his Tesla sitting across the street from my apartment.

There’s a knock at my door. I turn to the sound and stare at the closed door, only to hear the faint knocking one more time.

I’m standing here, frozen, in silence.

Bryce is outside my door.

Why is he outside my door?

Why am I standing here, wondering why he’s outside my door?

Tiptoe running up to the peephole, I look out to see his damn face looking handsome, even through the distortion of the glass. His suit coat is gone, his sleeves are rolled up at the arms, and he has a brown paper bag in his arms.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and then looks down at his attire.

Are you going to stare at me all night or let me in?

Shit. I bang my head on the door and wonder what in the world is the right thing to do at this moment. I told him I didn’t want to see him, yet here he is, standing outside my apartment. Then again, I did instigate our little text chain, so I probably gave him the wrong idea.

Maybe I was giving him the right idea. Perhaps I secretly wanted him to not give up.

This is what happens when you swear off men for six years. You end up with the flirting habits of a sloth.

I bang my head again.

Are you okay? I hear banging.

Pulling up my metaphorical big-girl panties, I unlatch the security bolt and open the door, only to see Bryce Sexton—all six feet three inches of him—holding a bag of what looks and smells like Chinese food.

“Hi,” I state with a surprised expression.

He, on the other hand, has a devilish smirk. His eyes roam over my face, looking slightly bewildered.

Touching my cheek, I feel the dried-up face mask. “Oh God,” I say, realizing I have a black glob from hairline to chin.

“It’s a good look for you,” he says, grinning.

If I wasn’t so embarrassed, I’d stop and notice the dimple that appears on his cheek.

“This is just … I was just settling in for the night.”

“I can see.” He lifts the bag. “I just got out of work and stopped to pick up some dinner. Then, I realized I ordered way too much for just one person. I thought maybe you hadn’t eaten.”

“You could have texted.”

“I could have.” He runs his hand down his jaw. His stubble has come in from a long day at the office, and it’s ruggedly handsome.

I shake the thought away. “How did you get my address?”

“I have my ways.” He eyes behind me and sees the tree.

I close the door halfway, blocking his view.

“Did I come at a bad time?”

“Well—”

Before my brain processes what to say next, Charlie comes running around the corner.

“Do I smell Chinese food?” His hair is sticking up as he rubs his eyes, not noticing the man standing at our front door.

My focus turns back to Bryce, whose face is laced with confusion. His smile fades, and his shoulders fall.

Charlie straddles my side and looks up at the stranger. “Mommy,” he whispers, “who’s that guy?” I look down at Charlie to tell him when his eyes widen. “What happened to your face?”

“It’s a mask. It’s supposed to make my skin stay firm and youthful.”

“You look like a villain from the movies,” Charlie states.

“Charlie …” I tap at the mask on my forehead that should have come off after fifteen minutes. It’s been twenty, which means I’m on the verge of turning into a bright red Oompa Loompa. “Go to your room.”

Charlie walks up to Bryce. “Do you have egg rolls in there?”

Bryce looks at me and then back to Charlie, his face a mess of confusion as he looks down at his hands like he completely forgot he was holding bags of food. “Uh, yes. I do.”

“Pot stickers?” Charlie asks.

Bryce peers into the bag and answers, “Yep.”

“Awesome!” Charlie tries to grab the bag from Bryce, but he pulls it back as if knowing the bag is too heavy for Charlie to carry.

“I’ll put it on the table for you.” Bryce walks past me, into my apartment, and places the brown paper bag on the kitchen table.

Charlie climbs up on a chair and sits on his knees, peering inside the bag, as Bryce starts emptying the contents for him.

This is all while I’m standing here with the door wide open and a mask on my face that desperately needs to come off.

Shit. The mask.

I close the door and then scurry down the hall to the bathroom. I leave the door open—because there is a strange man in the kitchen with my son—as I wash my face. Thankfully, it’s only a touch pink. I apply some moisturizer and fix the bun in my hair. When I look down, I realize I’m not wearing a bra.

I glance out of the bathroom toward the kitchen and see Bryce has gotten plates from the cabinet and is making one for Charlie. I open my closet, grab a bra from one of my drawers, and rush back to the bathroom.

Now that I look like a semi-presentable lady, I push my shoulders back and walk into the kitchen where Charlie is chewing on a pot sticker and speaking a mile a minute.

“Then, there’s The Joker Manor. It has three thousand four hundred forty-four pieces. Mom says I have to wait a few years until I can start that one.”

Bryce nods as he dips an egg roll into duck sauce. His tie is thrown over his shoulder. “That’s a lot of Legos for a four—”

“Five,” Charlie corrects him with his hand splayed in the air to show five fingers. “I’m in kindergarten.”

Bryce lifts his palm in the air. “I was gonna say fourteen.”

Charlie smiles and grabs another pot sticker from the white container.

I walk behind Charlie and wrap my arms around him. “Charlie, I’d like for you to meet my friend Bryce. Bryce, this is my son, Charlie.”

“We met,” they say in unison as they chew.

Jeez, I leave my son alone with a stranger for five minutes, and he’s on a first-name basis and breaking bread. Perhaps I need to work on the stranger-danger lesson with him again.

I look down at Charlie, who’s stuffing his face. “You already had dinner.”

“I’m only full up to here.” He holds his hand up to his chest. “I still have all this room to go.” His hand moves up the rest of his body, over his head.

“That’s not how it works.” I laugh.

“He’s a growing boy. Of course he’s hungry,” Bryce says as he pulls another container out of the bag and offers it up to me while saying, “Mom?”

The way he says it melts my heart. He’s not saying it maliciously or in a scared way. He’s saying it with sincerity … understanding, and my heart beats a little faster.

I wave my hand. “I’m okay. I’ve already eaten.”

“Yes! More for me,” Charlie squeals with delight.

“You act like I don’t feed you.” I take a seat and watch the rapport between the two of them.

Bryce opens beef with broccoli and scoops some onto Charlie’s plate. “So, you were telling me about the Bat Space Shuttle.”

“Oh, yeah. So, I just finished it. It’s in my room if you want to see it. I also have all of the Justice League characters and any Lego kits that cost nineteen ninety-nine or less because Mom says that’s what my budget is when we go to the store.”

Bryce eyes me, so I clarify, “Which is a healthy budget for a gift when it’s not your birthday.” I shrug.

Bryce turns back to Charlie. “Who’s your favorite Justice League character?”

“I like Batman, and Mom has a crush on Superman.”

“I do not,” I defend as I turn to Bryce. When I do, it’s to a knowing stare and the tiniest of smirks. It’s as if he’s caught me red-handed. I take a sharp breath and turn back to my son. “I don’t have a crush on Superman.”

Charlie lowers his forehead at me. “You talk about him all the time.”

“I don’t—”

“All. The. Time.” Charlie makes his point.

I lean forward and pinch his nose. “Eat your food. No more after what’s on your plate. You’re gonna have a stomachache.”

“But I didn’t even get to see what’s in that one.” He nods to the last container that hasn’t been opened.

“It’s Kung Pao chicken,” Bryce tells him.

“Like kung pow?” Charlie jumps off his chair and does a karate kick.

Bryce laughs out loud. It’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh like that—really laugh. It’s loud and boisterous. So very un-Bryce.

“Yeah, kind of like that. It definitely has a kick to it.” Bryce leans into him. “I mean, it’s kind of spicy.”

“Oh no, keep that one away from me. I don’t like spicy.” Charlie waves his hands in the air.

I lean back in my seat.

“You really aren’t having anything?” he asks me.

I shake my head. My stomach is in knots. Why? I’m not entirely sure. The food does smell delicious. “Maybe I’ll have a bite or two.”

He smiles, and goose bumps shiver up my arms. I make a note to grab a sweatshirt next time I get up.

Bryce dips his fork into the chicken and holds it up in the air. “Here, try this.”

Leaning forward, I wrap my lips around his fork. Our eyes lock on each other, and when his lips tilt up, I almost forget to slide the chicken off the fork.

“Where’s that kick you talked about?” Charlie asks.

I turn away from Bryce and chew quickly.

“It’s so spicy; she can’t even speak,” Bryce replies.

“I’ll stick to the pot stickers.” Charlie moves his hand to grab another, but I stop him.

“No more. We’ll save them for tomorrow.”

Charlie pouts out his lip, and I give him my best motherly stare-down.

Bryce moves the money tree to the side and lifts the survivor bracelet off the table.

“My survivor bracelet! Look, it has a whistle and a compass, and it’s a parachute cord,” Charlie states proudly.

“Yes, the Boy Scout troop I sponsor actually made their own to earn badges. They brought me one that sits on my desk.”

“I’m gonna be a Boy Scout!”

I shake my head, making sure he doesn’t get his hopes up on something I can’t deliver. “I’m gonna look into it first.”

“You can’t take me to Boy Scouts. I need a guy! Can’t Grandpa Mason bring me?”

I pick at a flap on one of the containers. “Hey, women can do it all, buddy. Moms can totally bring their kids. Besides, you might not even be old enough to join.”

“Grandpa says I am. He can take me.”

“He doesn’t live here, and that’s a lot to ask of him.”

“Then, who is going to take me?”

“I will,” Bryce chimes in.

My eyes widen at the thought. Not of him being a Boy Scout. That’s totally plausible. What I’m shocked at is the fact that he thinks I’ll send my son to Boy Scouts with him. I might find him insanely attractive, and he might be a joy to text with, but he’s still just some guy I met at a party … who stalked me at work, twice, and has now shown up at my home, and I still have no idea how he got my address.

“You will?” Charlie asks excitedly.

“Sure.” Bryce looks anything but sure.

“No.” I try to stop this nonsense. “Bryce, I can’t expect you to take my son. You are way too busy, but thank you anyway.”

“It wouldn’t be a bother,” he adds. “We’re capital sponsors to the local Boy Scouts. I’d be honored to show Charlie around.”

“See, Mom!” Charlie nearly jumps out of his seat.

I stand, needing to step away for a moment to breathe. “We’ll talk about this in the morning. We have to get you in bed,” I say in my motherly voice as I motion for my son to go to his room and then turn back to Bryce. “You … stay here.”

“Ah, Mom. Really? I can’t stay up a little more?” he whines.

I glance to Bryce before I turn back to Charlie. “Be thankful you got to stay up this late. You’ll have to get all the food out of your teeth and go brush again.”

He stuffs one more pot sticker in his mouth. “Mmm … totally worth it,” he jokes through a mouthful.

Bryce laughs as he reaches for a napkin, handing it to Charlie, so he can wipe his mouth. Charlie grabs his water that was already sitting on the table, drinking a few sips before hopping off the chair.

“What do you say to Bryce?” I ask as he walks away.

“Thank you for the yummy pot stickers.” He heads toward the bathroom but stops short and runs back to the kitchen. “I almost forgot my survival bracelet.”

“Come on, let’s go get you brushed up,” I say, patting Charlie on the butt and escorting him to the bathroom where we repeat his nighttime routine.

Thankfully, Charlie has always been a good kid and goes down easily. After tucking him in again, turning out the light, and flipping on the nightlight, I rub his head a few times. Spending a few minutes by his side, I listen as his breathing slows when he drifts back to sleep.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to understand why Charlie wants a man to take him to Boy Scouts. He needs some masculine attention. Pretty soon, he’ll be tired of his mom being his chaperone, taking him to buy his first jock strap or discussing puberty, sex—oh, dear. There goes that worrying thing again.

Leaving the door slightly open, I walk into the hallway and stop to see a rare sight of a man in my kitchen. I lean against the wall and watch as Bryce stands at the sink, his back to me, washing the dishes.

The table is cleared off, and the food has been put away. His tie is still lying over his shoulder as he scrubs my plates and places them on the drying rack to the side of the sink.

I’ve never had a man in my apartment, and I certainly have never had a man clean my dishes … especially not a man who looks like Bryce Sexton.

Even from the back, he is a fine specimen with back muscles that flex with every dip of the sponge and glutes that tighten as he twists to grab a towel from the oven handle. His presence is overpowering on a normal day, but in my tiny kitchen, he looks like he’s larger than life.

I walk down the hall and stop by the kitchen table. He notices my presence, so he turns toward me and winks.

Not sure what to do or say, I walk into the living room, only to realize just how small my apartment is.

I don’t want Charlie to hear us talking, so I open the window and climb out onto the fire escape. This little four-by-four platform has become my escape from reality, no matter how small it is.

I take a seat on the metal grate and look up at the sky. The fog is thin tonight, and there’s a sweet smell of the ocean in the air.

The distant sound of running water stops, and within seconds, Bryce appears on the other side of the window. With a raised brow, he inspects the size of it. Then, he lifts a foot onto the sill and climbs out.

I scoot over toward the window to make room for him as he crawls through with ease and climbs over me, taking a seat against the railing.

He stretches out his legs, so they’re dangling over the ladder heading down, and I elongate mine, so they’re propped up on the ladder that leads up.

We sit in silence for a few moments. His body is pressed up against the side of mine. I feel the warmth of his presence, and instead of being nervous or unsure, I’m oddly at ease.

“He’s a good boy,” he says after a while.

I smile, glancing down at my lap. “He is.”

“Is he why you’ve been avoiding me?”

Looking up into his dark eyes, I answer honestly, “Yes.”

His lips tilt up in a half-smile. “Is he the only reason you were trying to push me away?”

I sway my head from side to side. “The Christine incident didn’t help. Neither does the stalking. About that—”

“I took a chance,” he states. “Turns out, I have some pretty smart people who work for me. They didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know. They just told me what I needed to hear.”

“What’s that?”

“That you’re worth the rejection.”

Well, damn. How do you respond to that?

You don’t.

Instead, I sit here as he runs his knuckle along my kneecap.

“Tessa, I told you, I don’t lie. If you want to know why I’m here tonight, it’s because my life is a mess. I don’t know if I can keep my head on straight, and the only time I feel sane is when I’m talking to you. The only time I feel like I can breathe is when I’m with you.” He drops his hand to his lap as his head falls back to look up at the stars. “The only time I can sleep is when I’m thinking about you.”

Despite the relaxed look on his face, there’s a pained expression in his eyes. It’s in the way the lines form on the sides as he closes his eyes. I might bring him sanity, but this man is exorcising a lot of demons within. It’s interesting how someone who can seem so put together, who appears to have it all, can be so tied up on the inside.

I lean into him, and the scent of his cologne—cedar and tobacco with whispers of lavender—pours off his skin. This man who disrupted my life is now sitting on my fire escape, and instead of wanting him to leave, I’m finding solace in the fact that he’s here.

That’s why I fall back to my spot and honestly tell him, “I know what you mean.”

When his face looks back toward me, there’s a crinkle in his eye. I look the other way and bite my thumbnail.

We sit in silence for a few moments. An ambulance drives down the street. We ignore it. Bryce’s leg stretches further out and brushes against mine. I shift my body, and my hand accidentally falls against his. I leave it there.

He breaks the silence. “Is Charlie’s father here, in the city?”

“No,” I say, folding my outer knee to my chest.

“Is that a sore subject?” he asks so softly my heart sinks.

I bite my inner lip and nod my head while glancing at the ground below.

“Are you still in love with him?”

“Charlie’s dad?” I ask, surprised, turning to him. “No. I haven’t seen Ashton in six years.”

His eyes squint. “You mean …”

“Charlie’s never met his father. He lives somewhere is Australia now.”

“You’re doing this all alone?”

I lift my head and hold my chin high, proud to be a single mom. “Yes, mostly. My mom comes up to visit from Berkeley every Sunday, and Charlie goes to visit his father’s parents once a month.”

“And they’re okay with their son not being a dad to his own kid?”

I let out a sharp laugh. “Let’s not go down that road.”

“Truth or dare?” His question catches me off guard.

“Truth.” I swallow.

“Why were you afraid to tell me about Charlie?”

I open my mouth and then stall. “I’ve never had to tell anyone about him. Everyone who knows me knows he’s my life.” Our eyes meet, and I know he understands what I mean. “Truth?” I ask, and he nods. “Would you be here right now if you knew I had a five-year-old son?”

“Absolutely.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You know most men would run the other way if I told them right off the bat I had a son.”

“Then, you didn’t want me to run, did you?”

I drop my head back, laughing. “You’re twisting my words.”

“You think men are scum. But I’m not like that.”

“Oh, really?” I turn to him, bringing my knee up to brace myself better. “Do tell. How are you not like other men? Do you not fool around with your assistants?”

“It was just a kiss,” he says rather loudly and then brings it back a bit. “And maybe a grab or two … but I stopped it. I swear.” He looks almost in pain to have to revisit the memory. “Dare?”

“Truth.”

He drops his head, playing with the bottom of his tie. “Is there any part of you that was happy I showed up tonight?”

I chew on the inside of my cheek and try to lie. I can’t. “Yes.”

He grins. “Truth.”

“Do you want children someday?” I ask and then realize … “Wait. Do you have kids?”

This time, he laughs. “No, I don’t. And, yes, I want children,” he says so easily, so nonchalantly.

“Then, why don’t you have a wife and kids?”

He gives a reluctant grin. “I work too much.”

“Ah,” I draw out. “So, is this your way of telling me, this is all I’ll get? You showing up at eight o’clock at night with takeout?”

“I don’t know what you’ll get. All I know is I want to find out.”

I turn my head to hide my blush. “Truth.”

“How big is your crush on Superman?”

My eyes close in mortification. “I never said you looked like Henry Cavill. My coworker did. My turn. What’s the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done?”

“Jumped out of a plane.” He nods. “The day my brother enrolled in the military. I told him if he didn’t die next to me, then there was no way he’d die away from me. So, we went skydiving together.”

“You sound incredibly close.”

“Me and Austin? It’s … complicated.” There’s a pinch to his brow, as if something just dawned on him. “The day after I met you, Missy referred to you as …” He pauses, as if stopping himself from what he was about to say and regroups. “Missy thought you were dating Austin.”

I lower my head in embarrassment. “That’s because I kind of told her I was with him. Trust me; if I had known she was your guys’ wicked stepmonster, I never would have said anything.” My words make him laugh. It’s a boisterous laugh that echoes on the empty street. “Do you mind if I address her as the stepmonster from now on?”

“Be my guest.”

“Okay, your turn.”

“If you didn’t have Charlie, where would you be?”

“I don’t know. I can’t even remember my life without him. New York, I suppose. I always assumed I’d do makeup for television, like on The Today Show, or movie sets or maybe work with runway models for fashion week. There are so many opportunities there. It was just a dream of mine.”

“It’s a realistic dream.”

“Maybe. Someday. Not now. It’s too far from my mom, and Charlie needs family. Besides, I wouldn’t even know what I’d do out there. I’ve never been out of the state, let alone across the country.”

“Are you serious right now?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. “Not even to Nevada or Oregon?”

“Pretty pathetic, huh?”

“Not at all.” His head tilts toward mine, his attention fixed on me as if I’m the only person in the entire city he wants to be talking to. “You’re dedicated. You’re a mother. That’s worth more than a passport filled with stamps.”

Damn you, Bryce Sexton, and your words.

If I don’t watch it, I could fall for this man.

He reaches his hand to mine that’s lying on my thigh. When his fingers lightly rub against the back of mine, shivers run down my entire body.

“Tessa?”

“Yes?” I breathe.

“What would have happened if Christine hadn’t shown up that night?”

Our noses are practically touching, and our mouths are dangerously close.

“I would have let you kiss me.”

“Can I kiss you now?”

My breath stops. “Is that a dare?”

His pupils dilate, the black of his eyes are as serious as sin. “No. It’s a request.”

I glance down at his mouth, those lush lips and jaw full of stubble. What I could do to that mouth with my eagerly hungry one. It would be so easy to take him, ravage this man on a fire escape in the heart of San Francisco under the veil of fog and the pitch of night.

But I won’t.

Because, as much as I want to kiss him … I know my heart just can’t take it.

“No,” I breathe.

He nods the tiniest bit, as if he expected me to say that.

“What are you thinking right now?” I ask.

He smiles, his face still just inches from mine. “How beautiful you look.”

I roll my eyes. What a line. My skin is splotchy, and although dewy, it’s bare of any makeup. “You know I literally make women look beautiful by putting makeup on their faces.”

He raises his hand to the side of my head and slides his fingers through my hair. “Lesser women,” he says. “I like you like this. You’re not hiding behind anything. It’s just … Tessa.”

His thumb runs small circles along my cheek. I fall into his embrace and close my eyes. I know, when I open them, I’m going to lose all resolve. It’s his words. His touch. His woodsy scent. And it’s the way I feel like, no matter how much I know I should tell him to stay away, I—

“Mommy,” Charlie’s small voice calls out from his room.

I jump up and nearly fall over Bryce’s legs as I climb through the window and head toward my baby’s bedroom, knocking over a picture frame.

“My stomach hurts.”

I lay my hand over his tummy and rub small circles over it. I knew he would get sick from eating so much this late. I should have stopped him, but of course, I was too enthralled with our unexpected visitor that I dropped the ball on being a good mom.

There’s that self-doubt again.

“Here, scoot over, and I’ll cuddle with you,” I say, opening his covers wider.

I lie with Charlie until I’m positive he’s sound asleep again. When I walk back into the living room, the window is shut, the picture frame has been put back in place, and Bryce is nowhere to be found.

My cell phone is on the table near the door. I pick it up to see a text message.

Your son needed you, so I let myself out. Thank you for a wonderful evening. Tell the Lego King of San Francisco it was an honor to meet him. You’re doing an amazing job, raising him on your own. You should be proud.

Bryce Sexton, you’d better be worth it.