Page 66 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

“Shit, honey. I’m so sorry. It sounded perfect for you.” When she stays quiet, I press my chin into the side of her head. “Are you negotiating with her or just turning it down?”

“Joseph wants to work with her.” Her voice dims further. “He doesn’t want to let it go.”

“Well, if she doesn’t see how amazing you are, someone else will. And when you win curator of the year at the annual curator festival, she’ll regret her decision.” And Joseph better not be putting pressure on Sadie to do something she doesn’t want to do.

She laughs haltingly at my weak joke and . . . is that a sniffle?

Fuck. I desperately wanted this for her. She was so excited about the job, talking a mile a minute about the mentorship program, bouncing with excitement. Her tense shoulders now and subdued reply remind me of her tone when she admitted working from home was confining, that she missed seeing art and offices in person.

Unable to do a damn thing to help, I kiss the top of her head.

She runs her nail over my fingers, a light scrape I feel down to my toes. “Tell me about school,” she says. “You must be dying to get back into law.”

“Can’t wait,” I say. That’s it. No excited boasting from me either, and I’m not sure why. Mom wired me the money. With her investments over the years, the sum is substantial. This is the stability Sadie and Max need.

“The syllabus is overwhelming,” I admit, trying to figure out this ongoing edginess. “I have to repeat my first-year classes, but I can coordinate Friday afternoons and Monday mornings off.” More weekend time for my three-hour drives back to Windfall.

She squeezes my hand. “I’m so happy you’re finally getting your life back.”

“I’m particularly excited to flash my ink and tell everyone my father laundered money for the Becerra cartel.”

She pulls my arms tighter around her. “They’ll shut up when they see how brilliant you are.”

Whatever. Let them gawk and gossip. Sadie doesn’t seem to care. “More important,” I say, wanting to take Sadie’s mind off of her job stress, “is our first menu choice. I can’t decide between the chocolate chip cookie dough cupcake and the s’mores cupcake.”

“Ooh.” She pushes to her tiptoes and reads the chalkboard menu. “One of each, plus the maple bacon cupcake.”

Have I mentioned how perfect Sadie Jones is? “It’s a deal. I was also wondering if it’s cool for me to take Max to a baking class. Delilah’s hosting them in the café’s kitchen. Since you mentioned Max loves cooking, thought it would be fun for him. And we’d get some one-on-one time together.”

She spins fully and smiles up at me. “He’d love that. As long as you don’t embarrass yourself by burning what you make.”

“Yeah, no. I’ll just be his sous chef. Let him bake however he wants.”

She kisses the center of my chest. “You’re already such a great dad. Before you know it, you’ll be a Duke Law grad too.”

As much as I appreciate the compliment, her vehemence on that degree sits roughly. Like she needs to keep convincing herself that’s where I’ll end up.

Preferring to stick to the topic of us, I lean down and nip her ear. “FYI, when we get those cupcakes, I plan to lick some icing off your neck.”

Mischief sparks in her dare-me eyes. “Only if I get to lick some from your forearm.”

Fair warning: the PDA is about to get intense.

We spend the next two hours being carefree and silly. As promised, I smear icing on her neck, then lick it off. She retaliates with two fingerfuls along my forearm. The second her tongue touches my skin, I grunt. Translation: I’m aching to spread Sadie out on the nearest table and push into her with one mind-blowing thrust.

We don’t actually kiss, but man, do we tease. I tuck her into my side, wrapping my arm around her back, settling my fingers on the sexy place just below her breasts. She hooks her thumb into my belt loop and torments my hipbone. We eat falafel and pulled-pork sliders and fried avocado tacos while brushing against each other. We laugh about stupid things we did in school and marvel at Max’s art talent. When we order pad thai, she asks for it without cilantro, which I hate, and eats the shrimp she knows I don’t like. She doesn’t need to ask my preferences because she knows them, and I’m struck by the ease of this. The history between us. So much bad, but so much good.

More good, I think. Like my talk with Olivia. The scales that tip from forgiveness to grudges, depending on emotional weight. Our slow waltzes and Bear Lake talks and french-fry-eating races are piled on one side, along with our amazing Max.

On the opposite end is a decade of hurt and heartache, but it somehow feels lighter now. Not gone. There’s evidence of that weight. Between our banter, Sadie occasionally goes quiet, like her stilted behavior when discussing her work and at the start of the night. Each time, a small wrinkle creases the space between her eyebrows. Then I make a joke, bringing her back to me, tipping us into playful territory.

“So.” We’re at her car, the end of a night I’d like to stretch out in. Stay here and inhale her intoxicating scent until I’m drunk with it: the Summer of Sadie Jones. I crowd her against her door, loom over her small frame. “Hope you had a nice second date.”

A small sigh escapes her. “Thanks for planning such a perfect night.”

“Guess this is the end, though.” I hate saying goodbye here. I want to be at her home, asking to come inside.

She rests her hands on my chest, moves her fingers over my pecs, then down toward my abs. “You really have been working out a lot, Des.” Her voice turns breathy, her hands splaying wider.