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“Not bad. Just boring. Though I haven’t been on many dates at all lately, hence the Love & Relationships part of my list.” I winced the second the words left my mouth. “Sorry. That was inappropriate⁠—”

“It’s fine. I was the one who asked.” There was a strange undercurrent in his voice, but when I glanced over, his face was as impassive as ever.

“What about you? What are your hobbies outside of football?” I asked.

“I don’t have time for hobbies.”

“Everyone has time for hobbies. It can be small stuff, like watching movies. But don’t say that because that’s boring.”

There went that scowl again. I wondered how many times someone had to make an expression before it was permanently etched into their features. “You have a habit of calling me boring.”

“It’s not like you give me any reason to say otherwise,” I teased, earning myself an annoyed huff. I didn’t really think Noah was boring. He was grumpy and repressed, but I always had fun talking to him (when he used proper words instead of grunts, that is). “What about hobbies you’re interested in? Are there any skills you want to learn?”

After our heart-to-heart on Saturday, I was desperate to know more about him. What happened to Sarah was horrible, and part of me needed to know he was okay. Which was stupid, considering she’d died a decade ago and he seemed to be functioning fine, but there was more to life than work and family.

Was he happy? Did he have fun? What did he think about when he was alone at night? I shouldn’t care about any of these things, but I did.

“Skills I want to learn,” Noah repeated. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Maybe something creative. I’ve always been good at sports. Not so much at the artsy stuff.”

I perked up. “I love artsy stuff!”

“I can tell,” he said drily.

What should I recommend? There were so many options. Painting, drawing, embroidery, creative writing, pottery…Evie was a big fan of our scrapbook sessions, but I⁠—

A lightbulb went off in my head. My face broke out into an excited smile. “I have an idea.”

“I’m not making necklaces in my free time,” he warned.

“No, not that.” I stood and grabbed his hand, pulling him off the couch and into the hall. “I’m going to teach you how to do hair.”

Forty minutes later, we were deep into Carina’s Hairstyling Lesson 101. I’d steered us into the multipurpose lounge, which had the necessary surface space and mirrors I required for a proper tutorial.

He’d resisted at first, saying he already knew how to braid hair, but I convinced him there were secret tricks he didn’t know about, which there were. The man was great with his hands on the pitch yet horribly deficient when it came to the ins and outs of proper styling.

However, with the help of one of Evie’s old dolls (which we used for practice) and unwavering grit, patience, and determination on the part of yours truly, I successfully taught Noah how to braid a proper French braid.

Since Evie was still busy with piano and Noah had turned down my offer to celebrate his achievement with a slice of leftover cake, I’d turned my attention toward teaching a second lesson: how to do a Dutch braid.

“They look exactly the same,” he said when I showed him a picture of a French braid and a Dutch braid side by side.

“No, they don’t. They’re totally different.”

“Carina.” He crossed his arms, his face a study in obstinance. “They’re the same picture.”

“See, this is where your…your guy-ness gets you into trouble. French braids and Dutch braids are not the same, and if you want to blow all those other fancy private school dads out of the water, you need to know the difference. Sure, you all have big houses and nice cars, but what really sets you apart? Your hairstyling skills, that’s what.”

He stared at me. “What are you even talking about?”

I was already undoing the doll’s braid and prepping her for my next lesson. “Shh. Pay attention. I’m about to blow your mind.”

Despite his grumbles and sighs, Noah sat there and listened while I educated him.

“See? In a French braid, you cross the hair over the middle section so it lies flat. In a Dutch braid, you cross it under the middle section so it pops. It’s a very important distinction.” I launched into ten more minutes of details until he started checking his phone. I frowned. “Noah. Are you paying attention?”

“Over, flat. Under, pops. Got it.” He glanced up. “Do you mind if I try it out on you?”

My heart stuttered. I nearly dropped the doll in my lap. “What?”