Page 15 of Someone to Have (Skylark #3)

ERIC

It’s almost eight-thirty by the time we get home from dinner at Marty Maxwell’s Sunday night. Toby was there with one of his buddies from the fire station and took great pleasure in whooping Rhett’s ass at ping-pong. Over and over since the kid just wouldn’t give up.

The oldest of the Maxwell children, Elise, also attended the weekly family dinner with her insurance salesman husband and their two kids.

The twelve-year-old, Sydney, is a budding volleyball player like her mom and spent most of the evening setting the ball she brought with her against the wall in the front hallway.

No one seemed to find anything odd about the rhythmic thumping. It just added to the amiable cacophony. There was a lot of laughter, back-slapping, and yammering on about the glory days. Marty and Toby also gave Rhett the history of the Skylark High hockey program.

I’ve visited enough of my teammates’ families over the years to be comfortable with that kind of loud, over-the-top energy, but I have a hard time imagining Taylor enjoying it. And since she didn’t show up for the meal, my imagination ran wild with potential reasons why .

Marty told the group she’d texted that she was sick and didn’t want to infect anyone, so she’d be there next Sunday. But she and Rhett had their first tutoring session this morning. Other than the bruising and scrape still marring her creamy skin, she seemed completely healthy.

There’s a light snow falling, so Rhett and I kick off our boots and hang up jackets on the hooks near the apartment’s front door.

“Hey bud, why don’t you take a shower before bed?” Rhett is already heading for his bedroom, so I’m talking to his back. “Do you have any homework to finish?”

“Bruh.” He spins and gives me a withering look. “I showed you my planner after I finished with Taylor. It’s done. I’m gonna play Call of Duty .”

“After you shower and make your lunch for tomorrow.” I can’t decide if the nagging parent thing is good or bad.

He groans. “Can’t I just buy in the cafeteria?”

“We have leftovers. Homemade.”

“It’s not my fault you stress cook.”

“I don’t stress cook.” Okay, I might, but I’m not admitting it to my smart-ass nephew. Cooking relaxes me. So what? “I do it because right now it’s my job to provide healthy meals for you.”

“It’s not your job . I can make my own food.” He glares at me. “I like taking care of myself.”

His defensiveness makes my gut clench. My sister probably didn’t prioritize eating healthy, at least in the recent past, and I don’t want him to think I’m passing judgment on his mom.

“If you can’t find anything you want to eat, grab a twenty out of my wallet.” I toss it on the kitchen counter. “I know how much is in there right now, and I’m going to expect change.”

“Bruh. I’m not going to steal your dumb money.”

“Bruh. My money’s smart because I made it myself. I’m just telling you the facts because I would have given myself a five-finger discount when I was your age.”

“Gross.” He visibly shudders. “Why are you talking about fingering?”

I choke out a laugh, out of practice with how casually inappropriate teenage boys can be. “Get your mind out of the gutter and take a shower. I’m going to put a plate of food together and check on Taylor.”

His expression turns serious. “Do you think she skipped dinner because of her eye?”

“I don’t know,” I answer. “But Toby wasn’t upset when I mentioned it to him, so I’m not sure why she’d want to hide it from her family. Maybe she really is sick.”

“She’s super nice,” he says in a low voice, almost like he’s talking to himself.

“Yeah, she is,” I agree. And beautiful and sweet. She also smells like heaven. I should leave the food at her door like I did with the cookies. I don’t plan to do that, though. Because I’m an idiot.

I heat up the leftovers, cut off a piece of the crusty French bread I bought yesterday at the bakery, fold a napkin around a brownie and head across the hall. I hear noise from inside her apartment after I knock, but she doesn’t come to the door.

Alarm shoots across my belly like a comet in the sky.

“Tinkerbell.” I pound on the door. “I need to see the whites of your eyes. Proof of life and all that.”

There’s a moment of silence, and I can tell she’s standing on the other side of the door. I sense her, which is ridiculous, but I like it. I like this connection we have, even though it isn’t smart for either of us.

“I’m fine,” comes the muffled reply. She doesn’t sound fine.

“Then open the door. I brought dinner.”

Another long pause. “You can leave it in the hall.”

“Nope. I promised your dad I’d check on you. He’s worried.”

It’s trivial as lies go, but the doorknob turns. She glares at me through the crack. Does she look sick? Not exactly. But she looks something—ruffled, upset. Whatever it is, I don’t like it.

“My dad isn’t worried,” she says. “I’m sure he barely noticed my absence, other than when it came to cleaning up after dinner.”

“I noticed. Rhett noticed. He thinks you skipped Sunday supper because of your eye. I didn’t know it was possible for the kid to feel genuine remorse, but he seems to in your case.”

“He’s a good kid,” she says quietly.

“Let me in and I’ll feed you.” My voice is just as soft, like I’m trying to reassure a scared woodland creature.

She clearly wants to close the door in my face, but I think she might actually relent and let me in. Her eyes track down to the plate of food, and I work to hide a smile as I can practically see the gears turning in her brain.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Chicken marsala. And if the lasagna made you want to marry me, this one…” My eyebrow waggle is rewarded with a laugh that spills over me like sunshine.

Damn my reaction to her. Right now, I want to be bathed in her glow in ways that would make my Tinkerbell blush.

Nope, not mine, I remind myself.

She lets the door swing wider.

“I don’t want to marry you or anything else,” she mutters as she turns away, not bothering to give me a formal invitation—I don’t need one.

“Are you really sick?” I ask as I follow her to the kitchen. I take in her messy braid, T-shirt, and the yoga pants that hug every one of her curves. It’s easy to imagine peeling them off her. Too easy.

She spins on her heel and grabs the plate from me. “Thanks for dinner. As you can see, I’m fine.”

There’s an open bottle of wine on the counter with a nearly empty glass next to it. I fill it, take another wine glass from her cabinet, and give myself a generous pour as she settles in at the kitchen table.

She mumbles something under her breath before taking a bite. Heat courses through me when she groans. “I can’t believe you cook like this. You have two signature dishes?”

“Sweetheart, I’ve got a whole repertoire.” I carry the glasses to the table and take the seat across from her. “Just you wait.”

“Do you cook like this when it’s just you in Germany? Or do you have a…” She waves her fork in the air.

“A girlfriend?” I get a strange satisfaction telling myself she’s jealous at the thought.

She nods, a blush rising to her cheeks.

“No girlfriend.”

“I’m sure it’s not hard to find a woman you can cook for. Or a whole line of them.”

“Less hassle cooking for one,” I say. “But I like cooking for Rhett.” I lean forward. “And you.”

She’s not willing to admit she likes it, too, but we both know she does. At least I hope so. Toby really drove the final nail into the coffin of my reputation with that whole ‘manwhore’ thing.

“Rhett just accused me of stress cooking.”

She grins around a bite of chicken and mushroom. “Do you stress cook?”

“I’ve never thought about it that way, but I guess you could say I comfort cook. It calms me, you know?”

“Sort of. My mom was the same way, especially during hockey season. She was famous for her stews and chilis. She loved having Toby’s friends over for big, loud team dinners.

” Her smile is nostalgic. “She lost more than one dining room chair over the years because somehow the guys always ended up wrestling or diving over the table.”

“Yeah, I caught some of that vibe at your dad’s house tonight.”

She wrinkles her nose and the smattering of freckles across the bridge winks at me. “My family is boisterous to say the least.”

“Where do you fit into that?” I ask. It’s a question that’s been on my mind the whole evening .

She rips off a piece of bread and studies it. “They’re entertaining to watch.”

“You don’t participate?” I notice she’s not making eye contact.

“Not in the reindeer games my family likes to play.”

“It seems like they take competitiveness to a new level.”

“Ping-pong death matches,” she says, popping the bread into her mouth. “You should fit right in, but I stopped making an effort on team Maxwell years ago. Got a little old when it always felt like someone was making a big sacrifice to have me on their team.”

“It wouldn’t be a sacrifice.”

Her blue eyes slam into mine before she focuses on her plate again.

“What happened tonight?” I ask.

She bites down on her lower lip, and I have to physically restrain myself from reaching out to trace my thumb across her full mouth, soothing that pink and angry spot.

“I was trying to rehearse for the audition.” She takes a deep breath and sits back in her chair. “I promised my friends I’d go through with it and don’t want to disappoint them. But I’m not sure I can go through with it.”

“Why does it matter to your friends?”

Her smile wobbles on one end. “We’re all in a book club together. The Cool Girls Book Club.”

“Original name.”

“I know,” she agrees, her smile relaxing a touch. “Our friend who founded it, Sloane, owns the bookstore in town. She also has cancer.”

“That’s rough,” I murmur.

“It’s been very rough. She’s been in a hospital in Nashville since before the holidays because of complications with her treatment.” The worry in Taylor’s voice makes my heart hurt for her. “She asked each of us to take part in a bucket list challenge right after she was diagnosed last summer.”