Page 39 of The Right Wrong Promise

I snort loudly, snagging one on my way to the fridge.

We’ll just see about that.

“Keep talking like that, Bud, and you’ll be making us lunch.”

Dan’s eyes bulge and he shakes his head.

“Okay, okay! But why not just have the muffins instead?”

“Absolutely not. You need nutrition. When you’re older, you’ll appreciate your old man caring about your macros and glucose levels.”

I bite into the muffin, expecting to be overwhelmed, but—

Shit.

A blueberry cake rainbow floods my mouth.

I’m not sure I’ve had anything baked this good in ages. That includes the best places back home, and even the times when I’d pop into the Sugar Bowl on trips to Kansas City in my younger days. I think the old lady who owned the place then did black magic with a mixing bowl.

Unfortunately, this muffin tastes too close for comfort.

And now I have to addoutrageously good bakerto Margot Blackthorn’s mile-long list of red flags.

I’m just glad she isn’t here to see her stupid muffin make my eyes roll.

And she doesn’t butt in to disturb us as I throw together chicken salad on whole wheat bread for lunch with heaping bowls of those fresh blueberries as sides.

The muffin offering doesn’t help Sophie’s budding obsession with her new friend. I count fifteen separate mentions of Margot in the twenty minutes it takes to eat lunch together.

Daniel’s less interested in her, thank God.

Then again, Dan’s focus wanders like a puppy if it isn’t directly related to sports, military history, or music.

Margot isn’t a drummer and she doesn’t play soccer. Right now, she’s just winning him over with food.

Whatever.

He’s too young to have a crush on her.I hope.

Because I’m way too fucking old to feel the weird spark of jealousy if he does.

After lunch, I head upstairs for a few minutes of privacy, leaving the kids to read and talk in the kitchen. Music plays gently on the portable Bluetooth speaker we brought along.

We’ll see how long it takes to start a fight.

Sophie loves to play the same pop lists ten times in a row.

I think Dan wants to burn everything Swift or Milah Holly related on sight.

They bicker damn near daily over what’s on Spotify when they’re in the same room. It might be the most tired and worn-out argument in our house.

I swing the door to my bedroom open and freeze.

Margot stands in the corner, her hands flat on the wall and—tapping?

What the hell is she doing?

The door creaks and she swings around, bright color flooding her cheeks. Sunlight streams in through the windows, adding a golden glow to her hair and making her blue eyes glitter with a rush of emotion I can’t quantify.