Seven p.m. couldn’t come fast enough. Her day at court had begun to drag as if time had slowed down immediately after her call with Sam. But she deserved it. Her sense of time was relative to how hard she was thinking. A day of routine robotic typing meant she could zone out to the extent that it was an almost out-of-body-experience. And those were the kind of days that flew by. But give her brain a chance to actually think—or, in this case, obsess about someone—and the clock just couldn’t move quickly enough. It was even a short work day for her. Supposedly.

On the bright side, she hadn’t worked any spousal abuse or child custody cases today. And she’d heard nothing further from Kurt. That, in addition to how her day would wrap up—hopefully wrapped up in Sam—had the makings of a very happy Clara. She just hoped that Molly would feel the same way.

They had met just once, Molly literally running into him at the courthouse. She seemed to really love that. Molly that day had been her typical Tasmanian devil self. But that all seemed to end after Sam. The girl had really taken to him. As much as Clara had dissuaded her from talking to strangers, it was, even at the time, oddly heartwarming. Looking back on it, it was hard to believe he’d ever been a stranger.

“Remember your friend from the courthouse?” Clara asked her on their car ride home from school.

Molly didn’t seem to remember. She wore a sour expression, her thinking face, but even that couldn’t produce the answer. She was likely tracing back through her memories in search of someone her age, not a thirty-seven-year-old criminologist.

“Remember the man you ran into because you were running like a crazy person?”

She thought for a minute, and then burst out laughing.

“Yeah? You remember him?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, he’s coming over tonight for dinner.” Clara wasn’t sure what to expect. Probably one of Molly’s patented non-reactions. “What do you think about that?”

She seemed to be thinking long and hard.

“Molly?”

“What’s for dinner?”

That was probably the best reaction. They drove the rest of the way arguing about what Molly did or didn’t learn at school today.

What was for dinner hardly mattered for Molly. She was having the grownup salmon and asparagus, but homemade mac and cheese. It was only right to give her an extra treat, seeing as how Mommy would be getting hers, with any luck. Clara put the mac in the oven, set the rice cooker, and cleared everything off the dining room table before cleaning the living room, and eventually the bathroom, and still found time to finagle Molly into picking up her room and then even taking an early shower. To Clara’s surprise, it took hardly any finagling at all. Maybe Mommy’s good energy was contagious. It might have helped that Molly, the Cancerian, was naturally super empathic. She seemed to be able to read her mother’s energy, even her thoughts. Mommy’s little human lie-detector. It had gotten Clara into trouble a few times.

After the finishing touches on both dinners, the kitchen itself, and on Molly’s knotted, entangled hair, the scene was set for a highly anticipated, yet slightly nervy dinner date. It was the first time Sam came to her house, and the ramifications of this “next step” made her almost painfully nervous. Perhaps it was that, or the fact that she’d been working so hard to make the night perfect, that vanquished her appetite.

Another factor was the ring of her doorbell.

Clara froze up at the sound of it, the digital chime ricocheting inside her skull with the rest of the last-minute concerns of dinner prep, Molly prep, and her own distinct lack of prep for what had become the most highly anticipated blackened salmon dinner of her life.

“Molly,” she cried from the kitchen. “He’s here.”

There was the sound of little steps pounding down the stairs, and then a little voice. “I know. Can I get it?”

Clara liked the idea of Molly being the first to greet him at the door. It seemed cute, until she thought of Kurt. She didn’t want to take even the slightest chance that he’d somehow traveled directly from prison to arrive at her door. His pattern of behavior thus far, the increasing encroachments into her life, seemed to dictate that there would ultimately be more. Clara had been preparing herself for it, to expect the unexpected. But it was 7 p.m. It was date night. And it would be Sam. Kurt would stay far away tonight if he wasn’t looking to be abused himself.

She thought of Sam standing at the door, his body taking up the door frame. Although he had the fashion sense and etiquette of a tenured professor, underneath that soft exterior of genteel studiousness was the hardened body of a warrior. Their relationship was new, but he’d already shown he would go to war for her, whether that war was Kurt, or anyone or anything else. He’d even told her the name of a friend who might be able to help with the psycho ex situation.

Yes, it would be Sam at the door. Standing there, waiting.

Shit, answer the door!

“I got it,” Clara called out to Molly. She walked toward the door, taking deep, even breaths, and making sure on her way past that she hadn’t left any underwear lying on the floor and Molly’s collection of five million trading cards had been cleared away. Being sure to actually unlock the deadbolt before trying uselessly to open the door like the some nervous, bumbling idiot. Being sure that her smile didn’t look like that of an insane person.

When she finally pulled it open, all of her sureties imploded into themselves, and she was left with one big gaping hole of uncertainty. Did she look okay? Was her hair okay? Was she sweaty from the last-minute housework? Was her face too greasy from that kitchen work? Sam moved in swiftly and wrapped his arms around her, and there was nothing left to think or worry about.

They pulled apart. God. He was also handsome, but he’d put in extra effort tonight. Hair neatly cropped, his usual stubble now growing into a full and incredibly sexy beard. The growing heat in his eyes was reflected by the porch lamplight.

Clara stared. She kept him out there until finally saying in one big giggling jumble, “Oh, yes, please, come in.”

And he came in, smiling broadly but saying nothing. Was he nervous, too?

“So here it is,” she said, waving an arm at the recently picked-up house. “My humble abode.”

“Not so humble,” he said, looking around. “It’s fantastic. Are those Monets?” He was looking at her prints, Morning on the Seine, Chairing Cross Bridge. She was glad he knew about them, that he could even say something about how much he liked impressionism. They must have had so much in common that was yet to be discovered.

“Can I take your coat?” she asked.

He slid it off his back around one arm so that his chest stuck out for a delicious half second. And then his arm was free, everything looking firm under his tight dress shirt.

“You look so nice,” she said.

“Oh,” he said, shrugging. “Well, I’m just wearing another of my boring dress shirts. You should see my closet: it’s like a Möbius strip.”

“Men are so lucky. Pants, shirt, tie, and you’re good to go. Nothing even has to match.”

“Come on, I wear coats and cardigans occasionally. That takes a lot of thought.”

They both stood there next to the Monet prints, staring at each other dumbly as the small-talk swirled around them. As it grew more and more inane, Clara finally remembered that she was hosting a dinner. “You want a drink first? We can sit and relax a bit if you want. And I’ve got some hors d’oeuvres, er, appetizers.”

He followed her into the living room. “Geez, I hope you haven’t gone through too much trouble. Smells amazing in here, by the way.”

“I cheated with the appetizers.” She winced. “Frozen puff pastries.”

“Clara, I’m living in a hotel. All I have is a microwave.”

“Phew . . . Good. The bar is set low.”

“As low as frozen burritos can take a man.”

Clara laughed, and then looked around for Molly. Where did she run off to?

“Actually Clara, next time we should cook together. Even better, I’ll cook. You can just sit over there and get drunk or something.”

“Be careful what you wish for.”

“No, I actually really miss being in a kitchen. Cooking is great for stress relief.”

She was yet to feel any relief, rushing to get dinner finished on time, though she imagined there were other ways. “Yeah,” she said, smiling. “You’re right.”

Clara had him sit on the sofa while she slipped into the kitchen for some wine. She was unscrewing the cork when she felt his hands on the small of her back. It electrified her spine, spinning her around to face him. She wanted to say something funny, but he was already kissing her, pressing her back against the counter. Her hands almost trembled as they reached up to feel the back of his head, his freshly short hair feeling good under her fingers. Their lips met and she reveled in his taste, before she broke away with a mischievous grin.

“Helping with the appetizer?” she asked.

He nodded, then reached his arms around and past her body, to the counter where he worked the cork out of the bottle. His arm muscles flexed against her back until everything released and relaxed at the satisfying plunk of the cork. A moment later he was pouring out the glasses blindly, his eyes glued to hers.

“Thanks for having me,” he said, as they clinked their glasses.

She took a sip and then led him back to the living room, stopping at the foot of the stairs to call Molly’s name. “Sometimes she can be shy, if you can believe it,” she said to Sam. She laughed. “I know that wasn’t the case when you met her, but . . . She’s in a constant state of flux. Her mood has a lot to do with how much she’s slept and how long ago she’s eaten. I don’t know if it’s just her age, but she changes like the weather. Sunshine to storm clouds and then back again, all in a single episode of Gilmore Girls.” Clara looked up the stairs again, listening to those soft footsteps come closer until Molly finally emerged at the top of the stairs. She smiled in a cute yet slightly deranged fashion at Sam. Well, if nothing else, dinner would be interesting.

* * *

Sam had been great with Molly all through dinner, not necessarily overdoing it with conversation or direct attention, but always seeming to stay engaged and in tune with Molly’s needs— whether they be for her to be left alone, or him to lend an ear to one of her jokes about some children’s show that he’d never heard of, or the simplest little help like when she had dropped her napkin. He’d done it all effortlessly. Gladly, even. It warmed Clara’s heart to see it. She wasn’t sure how it would go, having him over like this so early. While Molly wasn’t exactly gushing at Sam’s attention the way she did, there was a very pragmatic—no, realistic affinity. Considering the way Molly usually reacted to adults she didn’t know, it was practically a ringing endorsement. Sam had the right approach, something that could even work long-term. A marathon, not a sprint.

He and Clara, on the other hand, had gone from a jog to sprinter’s pace in roughly forty-eight hours, which she was enjoying immensely. However, instead of a finish line, there was a brick wall—his eventual departure for Washington. While she was all for self-preservation, she couldn’t help herself with keeping up their white-hot pace. She was running blind. But running happy.

Molly, on the other hand, had become not so happy when, after dinner, the evening slipped into grownup time.

“Can’t I watch it?” Molly asked, almost singing her plea to stick around with the grownups and watch whatever movie they’d be watching.

“It’s a grownup movie,” Clara said, loading the dishwasher. “You won’t like it.”

From the sink, his hands in soapy water, Sam whispered, “Is it really grownup?” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

“Pleeease,” said Molly. “Can I watch it if there’s no swearing in it?”

“There’s swearing in it.”

“Awwww!”

“Molly.”

“I’ll plug my ears,” Molly said, padding into the kitchen.

“Why don’t you plug into your tablet?” Clara said, fully aware of how horrible of a parent she’d become. A briber. “I’ll download another game for you.”

Molly stayed quiet at that, perhaps thinking it over. And then Clara felt her little arms hugging around her waist.

“Did you come in here to help with the dishes?” Clara asked. “That’s so nice of you.”

Molly didn’t say anything.

“I’ve got an idea,” Sam said, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “What if we all played a game?”

Molly gasped.

Clara turned to see a suddenly very pleased-looking little girl. “What do you say, Molly? You want to pick a game for us to play?”

Molly gasped again, and then ran out of the room—presumably in the direction of an antique treasure chest full of board games.

“You keep scoring points with her,” Clara said quietly to Sam.

He shrugged. “I’m actually just in the mood for a board game.”

“Sure you are.” Clara chuckled as she spun around, using her hip to fully close the dishwasher door.

“Oooh.” Sam smiled. “I like that move.”

“There’s plenty more.”

Sam’s eyebrows perked up. “Oh?”

“Uh-huh.” She walked slowly toward him, rocking those hips he’d liked so much. But then Sam’s head snapped away toward the living room.

“I got Quirky, Guess Who, Whoot Owl . . . And Sorrrry!” Molly smiled proudly as she stacked a bunch of the boxes onto the counter.

Sam looked back to Clara and laughed. “Sorry?”