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She leans in, lowering her voice and giving me a pleading look. It’s that face we made as teenage girls to alert our friends that their crush was close by. “Please don’t leave me here with these men. I’m begging you. They’re going to start talking about car engines and the stock market and all the things that make my brain go to sleep.”

I look around like I’ve just walked into a trap I didn’t agree to.

Julian doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re staying. Wes needs his nanny.”

“For Rosie?” I ask.

“For him.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Wes snaps, grabbing a beer from the fridge without looking at either of us.

I should say something. I should set a boundary, politely decline, reclaim my plan for face-planting into the couch, and pretending I don’t exist. But nothing comes out.

Wes caps a beer, tosses a slice of pizza on a plate, and walks it over to me. No fanfare. No pressure. Just tired eyes and a quiet nod.

“We’re both exhausted.” Ain’t that the truth. “If I have to suffer, then you do too.” I crane my neck back to look at him as he takes another step with that crooked grin curling at the corner of his mouth. “Besides, it’s my birthday. I insist.”

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

My bag slides off my shoulder with a soft thunk onto the floor.

Twenty-Eight

Rosie’s limbs are finally still, her breath soft and steady as she snoozes like someone who’s just run a marathon through cake and attention.

It took three stories, four failed lullabies, and one very firm conversation about why we can’t take the balloons to bed. Now she’s curled on her side, one hand fisted in her blanket, hair sticking up in wild tufts, and cheeks flushed with the kind of joy only a sugar high and staying up past bedtime can provide.

Downstairs, laughter drifts up from the kitchen. Someone just cackled loudly enough to make the floor vibrate. I’m guessing it’s Julian.

I glance down at Rosie and my heart squeezes so tight that I lose my breath. I love this little girl. Like, terrifyingly, completely, no-going-back kind of love. The kind where you catch yourself staring at them for too long and planning imaginary futures that you have no business imagining.

“Goodnight, Rosie Posie,” I whisper, brushing my fingertips over her cheek. “Love you.”

A creak sounds behind me.

I turn as Wes slips into the room, his broad shoulders silhouetted in the soft glow of the nightlight.

“Everything okay? You’ve been up here a long time.”

I shrug and turn back to Rosie. “One bedtime story turned into three,” I say, my voice soft.

When I glance at him again, he’s standing just a few feet away, watching. Something shifts in his eyes.

“Come on.” He tips his head toward the door. “Sienna’s made some kind of cocktail concoction, she says you ‘simply must try.’” He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “It’s bright pink.”

I let out a quiet laugh and tug the blanket a little higher over Rosie’s small body. “God help me.”

Wes pulls the door half-closed behind us as we step out into the hallway.

As we walk, I glance at him. “What age are you anyway?”

He side-eyes me. “Thirty-two. Why?”

I feel the teasing smile splitting my face before I get a chance to stop it. “You’re in luck, Turner.”

He raises a brow. “How’s that?”

I lean in and whisper, “I’ve always had a thing for older men.”