Page 10 of Tempted By the Handsome Doctor (Curvy Wives of Cedar Falls #3)

"Can I drive you home?" The question slips out before I can overthink it, casual but hopeful. "Or we could walk, if you'd prefer. It's a nice evening."

Maya considers me for a moment, her dark eyes thoughtful. She's still holding the tissue-wrapped scarf I bought her, fingers absently tracing the edge of the paper.

"Sure," she says finally. "A ride would be nice. I walked here, and my feet are starting to hate me for it."

Relief washes through me, though I try not to show how much her acceptance means. "My car's just outside the south entrance."

We make our way through the festival crowd, which is now thicker as the afternoon stretches toward evening.

I place a hand at the small of Maya's back to guide her through a particularly dense cluster of people and wonder if I've overstepped.

But she doesn't pull away; she just glances up with a small smile that makes my heart stutter in my chest.

The Audi is exactly where I left it, gleaming gunmetal gray in the slanted afternoon light. I unlock it with a click of the key fob and open the passenger door for Maya.

"Still think it's too flashy for Cedar Falls?" I ask, remembering her comment from the diner.

"Absolutely." She slides into the leather seat. "But I have to admit, it's a beautiful car."

I close her door and walk around to the driver's side, oddly pleased by the concession. When I get in, she's running a hand over the dashboard.

"Dad would have loved this," she says. "He was a Toyota loyalist to the core, but he secretly drooled over sports cars."

"What kind?" I ask, starting the engine. It purrs to life with a satisfying rumble.

"Corvettes, mostly. He had a whole collection of model ones." Her voice turns wistful. "They're still on a shelf in his study. I couldn't bear to pack them away."

I navigate out of the crowded parking area, "Where to?"

"Willow Lane," she says. "The little blue cottage at the end, number seventeen."

I know the street—a quiet, tree-lined road of modest older homes on the east side of town, not far from the library. It's the kind of neighborhood where people still put out flags on the Fourth of July and bring casseroles when someone gets sick.

"I grew up on Orchard Street," I tell her as we drive. "Just a few blocks over."

"In Lou's house, right?"

I nod. "Same house he's in now. He refused to move even after his knee got bad and the stairs became a challenge."

"Stubborn," Maya observes.

"Runs in the family, apparently." I flash her a quick smile before returning my eyes to the road.

"I've noticed."

The drive is short, just ten minutes from the park to Willow Lane. As we turn onto her street, the setting sun bathes the row of modest homes in golden light. Mature trees line the sidewalks, their branches creating dappled shadows on the pavement.

"That's it," Maya points to the last house on the right—a small blue cottage with white trim and a wide front porch. A massive oak tree dominates the front yard, its lower branches perfect for climbing. The kind of tree kids dream about.

Our kid might climb that tree someday.

The thought hits me. This isn't just Maya's house; it's potentially my child's first home. Where they'll take their first steps, say their first words, build their earliest memories.

I put the car in park and turn off the engine, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of it all.

"You okay?" Maya asks, noticing my expression.

"Yeah," I manage. "Just... thinking."

"It's a lot, isn't it? When it becomes real."

"Yeah." I run a hand through my hair. "Sorry, I don't mean to be weird about it."

"You're not being weird. I had the same moment this morning when I couldn't button my favorite jeans." She offers a rueful smile. "Reality checks come in all forms."

I laugh, grateful for her honesty, for the way she can defuse tension with a simple truth. "I guess they do."

We sit in silence for a few minutes, the car cooling around us. Through the windshield, I can see flowering bushes flanking her porch steps and a ceramic pot of chrysanthemums by the front door. It's a home, lived-in and loved, not just a house.

"Would you like to come in?" Maya asks suddenly. "For coffee—or tea, since it's late? I could show you around. Since this is probably where..." She hesitates. "Where the baby will grow up."

My pulse quickens at the invitation, at what it represents—trust, openness, a step forward. "I'd like that."

We get out of the car and walk up the stone path to her front porch. The steps creak slightly underfoot, and I notice a few places where the paint is peeling. Maya catches me looking.

"It needs work," she admits, digging through her purse for keys. "Dad was going to repaint, but he never got to it, and I just haven't had the time or energy."

"I could help," I offer, then worry it sounds presumptuous. "I mean, if you want. I'm pretty handy with a paintbrush."

She looks up from her key ring, surprise flitting across her features. "You don't have to do that."

"I know. But I'd like to." I shrug, trying for casual. "Grandpa Lou taught all his boys basic home maintenance. Said no Morrison should ever have to pay someone to do what they could learn to do themselves."

A small smile curves her lips. "I'll keep that in mind."

She unlocks the door and steps inside, flipping on a light switch. I follow, immediately hugged by the essence of Maya—old books and cinnamon.

"Welcome to my house," she says, a hint of self-consciousness in her voice. "It's not much, but it's home."

It's charming is what it is. The front door opens directly into a cozy living room with hardwood floors and a brick fireplace.

Bookshelves line every available wall, stuffed to capacity and then some, with stacks of overflow piled neatly beside armchairs and on the coffee table.

A faded but comfortable-looking sofa faces the fireplace, draped with a colorful knit throw.

"I love it," I say honestly.

Maya raises an eyebrow. "You don't have to be polite. I know it's small."

"I'm not being polite. It feels like a home." I move toward one of the bookshelves, scanning titles. "These organized by the Dewey Decimal System, Librarian Sullivan?"

She laughs. "God, no. That would be taking work home. They're loosely grouped by genre, then alphabetical by author. Except that shelf—" she points to one near the window "—which is just favorites, in no particular order."

I examine the favorites shelf, curious what it might reveal about her. Classic literature mingles with fantasy novels, poetry collections, and dog-eared paperback mysteries. I spot a well-worn copy of "The Night Circus" next to Octavia Butler's "Kindred" and a collection of Mary Oliver poems.

"Good taste," I comment.

"Says the man who has clearly read some of these," she counters, looking pleased nonetheless. "Tea or coffee?"

"Tea is fine." I follow her through an arched doorway into a small but cheerful kitchen, painted a soft yellow with white cabinets and butcher block countertops.

"Make yourself comfortable," Maya says, filling a kettle at the sink. "There are some cookies in that jar if you're hungry."

I lean against the counter, watching as she moves around the kitchen, taking down mugs and a tin of tea. There's something mesmerizing about seeing her in her space, unguarded and at ease.

"This was your dad's house?" I ask.

She nods, setting the kettle on the stove. "He bought it when I was two. We lived in an apartment before that, but he wanted a yard for me to play in, a real home." Her expression softens with memory. "He used to push me for hours on the tire swing that hung from that oak tree out front."

"It's still there?"

"No, the rope finally rotted through a few years ago. Dad kept saying he'd replace it, but..." She trails off, and I understand the unspoken end to that sentence. But then he got sick. But then he ran out of time.

"We could put up a new one," I suggest. "For the baby."

Maya looks up, surprise and something warmer flickering in her eyes. "We could."

The simple agreement, the use of 'we,' feels momentous somehow. I clear my throat, "Can I see the rest of the house?" I ask.

"Sure." She turns off the stove as the kettle starts to whistle. "Tea can wait."

She leads me back through the living room and down a short hallway. "Bathroom," she says, gesturing to a door on the left. "Nothing exciting, though I did retile it myself last year."

"Impressive."

"YouTube tutorials are a homeowner's best friend." She continues to a door on the right. "This was Dad's study. I haven't changed much in here."

I follow her into a small room with a large oak desk positioned under a window overlooking the backyard.

Bookshelves here too, but these hold more textbooks and literary criticism, alongside framed photos and the promised collection of model Corvettes.

A worn leather chair sits behind the desk, and I can easily imagine James Sullivan grading papers there, reading glasses perched on his nose.