Page 5

“You look like hell,” she said, appearing in the doorway with two cups of coffee and a knowing expression.
“Thanks. Really what every woman wants to hear first thing in the morning.”
She handed me one of the cups and leaned against my workbench. “Colby called Cory at six this morning.”
Cory was Summer’s husband. The small-town gossip network ran more efficiently than any phone tree ever invented.
“Oh?” I tried to sound casual, but Summer saw right through me.
“He asked if Cory knew any good family lawyers. Said he had a custody issue.” Her dark eyes studied my face carefully. “You want to tell me why you look like you haven’t slept, and why Colby Marshall is suddenly in need of legal counsel?”
I sipped my coffee—perfectly made, as always—and debated how much to share. Summer had been my friend ever since I’d moved to Millbrook and opened the shop. She’d been the first person to welcome me, showing up with homemade cookies and an offer to help me paint the walls. But this felt too big, too complicated to put into words. She’s also the one who introduced me to Colby.
“Lyla’s trying to get full custody of Luca,” I said finally.
Summer’s eyebrows shot up. “What? That’s insane. Colby’s a great father.”
“I know. But apparently she thinks he’s providing an unstable environment. Too many hours at work, relying too heavily on babysitters.” I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. “She’s probably been planning this for months.”
“Damn.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to say more. Summer was perceptive. If I gave her too much information, she’d piece together exactly what Colby had asked me to do. And I wasn’t ready to hear someone else tell me how crazy it was.
“You care about that little boy,” Summer said quietly.
“Of course I do. He’s—” I stopped, my throat tightening unexpectedly. “He’s like my own son, Summer. I’ve been there for every scraped knee, every bedtime story, every school event when Colby couldn’t make it. The thought of Lyla taking him away . . .”
“Hey.” Summer set down her coffee and put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s going to be okay. Colby has rights. Any judge will see how much that boy loves his father.”
I wanted to believe her, but I’d seen enough custody battles to know that logic didn’t always win. Lyla had advantages. Money, the assumption that mothers were naturally better caregivers, and a lawyer who probably specialized in making good fathers look inadequate.
The bell chimed again, and this time I heard lighter footsteps. A child’s footsteps.
“Miss G?” Luca’s voice carried through the shop, tentative and hopeful.
My heart clenched. “Back here, sweetheart.”
He appeared in the doorway, still in his pajamas with a jacket thrown over them. His dark hair stuck up at odd angles, and he clutched his backpack in one hand.
“Luca, honey, what are you doing here? Where’s your dad?”
“He’s talking on the phone with someone important. He’s using his serious voice.” Luca’s gray eyes—so much like Colby’s—were wide with the kind of worry children get when they sense adult stress but don’t understand it. “I got scared.”
Summer and I exchanged glances. She squeezed my shoulder once more and picked up her coffee. “I’ll let you two talk,” she said quietly. “But call me later, okay?”
After she left, I knelt down to Luca’s eye level. He’d walked the three blocks from his house to my shop, something he’d done dozens of times before when he was worried or excited about something. Colby had taught him the route and made him promise to only use it in emergencies.
“Dad’s not in trouble,” I said carefully. “He’s dealing with some complicated grown-up stuff. Did he know you were coming here?”
Luca shook his head, suddenly looking guilty. “I left him a note. He was talking really quiet and making worried faces, and I was scared.”
The serious voice. I knew exactly what he meant, the controlled tone Colby used when he was trying not to lose his temper. He’d probably been talking to his lawyer, getting the full scope of what he was up against.
“Okay, let’s call him and let him know you’re safe.” I reached for my phone, but Luca caught my hand.
“Miss G? Are you sad too?”
The innocent question hit me like a physical blow. “Why would you think I’m sad, sweetheart?”