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And Jake? I can’t even believe he’s here. Even though he clearly hates it and is slouched so far down in his chair, I can barely see his head, he’s spending the day with us because of Dante. Because Jake has begun to look up to the man.

I am outnumbered.

And out of excuses.

It was easy to cling to my anger and jealousy yesterday, when I saw Dante and his shrew of an ex hanging all over him, but today, there is nothing to keep me anchored to earth. Nothing to keep my heart tethered.

That dumb organ is off floating on cloud nine.

To say nothing of my sex drive.

I hoped by wearing the thick cream sweater and wide-leg pants, I’d be able to prevent Dante’s constant horndog eyes. But any time I catch his gaze, I can practically see the movie in his head. The visions flickering of me on my knees in the kitchen. Bent over in the shed. Splayed out between his legs in my bed.

He’s replaying it all in his mind.

So am I.

I can’t help it.

Especially when he wraps a lock of my hair around his index finger, tugging gently.

Makes me think of our first night together.

Strip.

Get on top of me.

Feed me your tits.

I don’t realize the ballet is over until everyone around me stands in an ovation. I jump up to follow suit, although I haven’t actually watched anything since the dancers in the candy-cane-striped costumes left the stage.

Dante tosses a knowing grin at me, and I barely restrain myself from flipping him the bird.

The audacity of being hotandcharming.

After the show, he ushers us all out of the theater like a mother duck and her chicks to the Christmas market downtown. It’s a cold but clear day, the blue sky just starting to bleed into orange as the sun sets. The market is only a few blocks and Dante entertains us on the way by talking about which bits of the ballet he enjoyed most and that he could “totally hit that triple axel jump that guy did.”

Jake dares him to, and he takes a running leap into the air only to do half a spin, but he lands with a flourish that sends Maddie into a fit of giggles. I dip my chin down, tucking my mouth behind the collar of my coat, so he can’t see me smiling when he comes to my side, asking, “Did you see that?”

“Soimpressive.”

“Yeah. I thought you’d like that.” He curls his hand around the side of his mouth, shouting to Jake, who’s performing his own jump spin. “Hey, you gotta get better height. Come on!” Then he shoots me a wink before sprinting ahead to complete a 180 this time.

Sighing up at the sky, I let a laugh loose. Whoever is up there really did break the mold with Dante Moretti.

And I would never want him any other way.

The market is set up every weekend in December on Aster Street with wreaths on lampposts, lights strung across storefronts, and booths set up in the cordoned-off street, selling wares from the local vendors. We stop to say hello to Ian at his shop, where Dante spends a few minutes looking over my brother’s art pieces framed and hung up on the walls as they chat about tattoos. Dante has two. One on his forearm, with a cross and rays of sun behind it, and another above his collarbone with Roman numerals for his birth year.

As if I need a reminder that he is so much younger than me.

“Nice seeing you again,” Dante says, clasping hands with my brother, who flicks his gaze to me in silent communication.

One that means heknowssomething is going on between us.

Because, first, I invited Dante over for Thanksgiving, and now, we’re out with the kids. On something that probably appears very much like a date to an outsider.

Even though it isnota date.