Chapter 23

Victoria

The Haydenwho showed up to my house tonight is different than any version I've seen before. He's more contemplative, almost melancholy. And the way he talked about growing up—oh, my heart. His words were fairly neutral, but his tone of voice … He sounded bereft. Like he knew exactly what he'd missed and that he'd never ever be able to replicate that.

That's exactly what I don't want Erin to grow up feeling. It's hard enough that her sperm donor abandoned us when I was pregnant. And while she mostly doesn't let on that it's a thing, every once in a while—especially when there's some kind of daddy-daughter event—I know it bothers her. My dad, bless him, does his best to fill the role, but when all your friends show up with their dad and you have your grandpa, it's just not the same. And I don't know if it's better or worse that everyone knows that her dad's a deadbeat. At least she doesn't have to answer questions about where he is or why he's not around? But I've seen the pitying looks that get thrown her way. Hell, I get them too, sometimes, though there's also a fair amount of censure in the ones I get.

At least they don't hold Erin responsible for the circumstances of her birth.

We stand and kiss in my living room for several minutes, long enough that there's a crick in my neck from tipping back so far, but I don't want to stop. Don't want to move. Not enough to say something anyway. I have this feeling that this is exactly what Hayden needs right now. It might not make up for everything he's missed, but it goes some way toward healing the hole he's obviously carrying.

We break apart when the air fryer beeps, but before he releases me, Hayden wraps his arms around me and pulls me into a tight hug. Then he lets me go with an apologetic smile. "You're starving. I shouldn't stop you from getting food."

Just then his stomach rumbles, and I pat his belly. "Sounds like I'm not the only one who's hungry."

The look he gives me is positively wicked. "In more ways than one."

Even though my cheeks heat, I like the way he acts like he wants to eat me up. I haven't felt wanted like this in a long time, my life almost entirely revolving around work and motherhood, with time with friends and family rounding things out. Despite my occasional forays into online dating, the truth is that I put romantic relationships on hold a long time ago, only giving it the barest of chances at Brit's encouragement spurred on by the occasional bout of loneliness. But it's never taken much for me to give up and pack it in when dates are low effort—and I'm not talking low investment like coffee or drinks, but like showing up in sweats levels of low effort—or guys who put in a lot of effort up front, but once they get what they want, they ghost or breadcrumb you, acting like they want to see you again, but can't be bothered to follow through. I don't have time for that nonsense or the emotional bandwidth to deal with the way it makes me feel.

This—this level of desire and friendship and ability to laugh with each other—this is what I didn't know was missing from my life.

Returning to the kitchen, I pull out a couple of apples and slice them up so we have something healthy to go with our chicken nuggets. Hayden follows me and chuckles softly when I plate the food. "It's like something from a TV show," he murmurs, and I think it's meant mostly for himself, but I can't help looking at him, a puzzled expression on my face.

"What?"

He sees it, and gives me a puzzled look also. "What?"

I gesture at the plates with chicken nuggets and apple slices on them. "How is this anything like TV?"

"You know." He gives me a look like I should be following him. "On those shows and movies where the parents are too exhausted and they just eat this kind of stuff."

I blink at him. "And what did you eat when your parents were too exhausted to cook for real?"

He shifts, rubs the back of his neck, looks at the food, then back at me. "Uhhh."

My lips wiggle from side to side as I fight to contain my smile. "Have you ever eaten chicken nuggets before?"

He looks affronted. "Of course I have."

I wave my hand at the plates again. "Like this, though. Not fast food."

His look turns sheepish, and I lose the battle to contain my grin. "You had a personal chef growing up, didn't you? And your parents didn't keep this kind of thing on hand because the fridge was always packed with gourmet food in individual containers? Like they show on movies and TV shows with rich people as characters?"

That makes him laugh. "So you're telling me this is pretty normal?"

I shrug a shoulder. "Around here it is. Standing around at kid activities talking to other parents is often swapping stories of the meals we tossed together in the cracks of time between the end of school and work and whatever activity we're at—‘We don't get home until after five,'" I parrot, "‘and have to be here by six, so I have my oldest microwave burritos for everyone.'" I gesture at the freezer. "But swap in any easy frozen thing for burritos. Chicken nuggets, breakfast sandwiches—you get the idea." At his nod, though his eyebrows are still pinched together, I hold up the bottle of barbecue sauce. "Sauce?"

His face clears, as though that's some kind of magical incantation. "Yes, please."

I give us each a dollop, being sure to keep it well clear of the apples, then pass him a plate. "Do you want to eat at the table? Or on the couch and we can turn on a movie?"

He seems to have to think about that question for a lot longer than I would've expected. Then, that same sheepish look on his face from earlier, he asks, "Would you mind eating at the table?"

"Not at all." I lead the way, setting my plate in my usual spot at the end of the table and clear some stray papers out of the way for him to sit at the spot to my right. "What would you like to drink? My options are a little slim. I have water, of course, or milk. Or …" I move back to the fridge and open it up, pulling out the last couple cans of hard cider I bought a while ago. "Or I have these."

He raises his brows. "And what are these?"

Closing the distance between us, I offer him one of the silver cans. "It's from a local-ish cider place. They're pretty good. I like them anyway."

Holding my gaze, he cracks open the can and takes a drink, his eyebrows lifting in pleasant surprise as he swallows and looks down at the can. "This is really good." I open my can and clink it against his, but he stops me before I can take a drink. "Come on. That's not a toast. We have to do that again." He meets my eyes again, his all soft and caramely with some nameless emotion. "To us," he says softly. "To now. And to a night all to ourselves."

Another blush warms my cheeks, and I can't begin to explain why or how he affects me that way, but every time he looks at me like that or speaks in that voice, this is what happens. "To us," I murmur, clinking my can against his again, and we both drink, our gazes locked. The whole thing feels significant somehow. Like some kind of ancient ritual binding us together, though I know that's silly. Speaking of things that only happen in movies …

He stares at his plate for a moment like he's not sure what to do, but I'm too starved to worry about his trepidations about being faced with a plate of chicken nuggets and apple slices. Picking one up, I dip it in the puddle of barbecue sauce. That seems to do the trick because Hayden does the same.

After a moment, the initial silence gives way to conversation. He asks about my day on set, and I tell him stories about working with Mia. He reciprocates with stories from this shoot plus other films he's worked on, and aside from the topic of conversation making it very obvious that I have a movie star in my house eating kid food for dinner with me, it all feels so normal and easy.

When we finish eating, I reach for his plate, but he picks it up and holds it out of reach, snaring mine before I can move. "I've got this," he says, leaning over to kiss me, then he takes our plates to the sink where he rinses them, squirts them with soap, and washes them efficiently before I can protest that I have a dishwasher.

While he's washing, I pull out a clean towel, but he won't even let me dry them, stealing the towel and a kiss at the same time, then drying the plates with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Leaning against the counter, I cross my arms and watch him. "You seem very pleased with yourself."

He nods, very smug. "I am." He waves a hand at me. "Go sit. Relax. You've had a long day. Pick out a movie, like you said."

But I shake my head, not budging an inch. "I'm enjoying the show right here, thanks."

That makes his smile grow wider, though no less smug. "I can't complain about that, then. Would you like to film it so you can watch it whenever you want?"

Laughing, I shake my head. "Oh, no. I want to experience every minute of this without losing anything fiddling with my phone camera or the distance that forces. My memory is good enough. Besides," I add after a beat, "aren't you on camera enough of the time? Do you really want to be filmed in your downtime?"

He pauses mid-swipe of the towel over the plate then slowly finishes drying it and sets it down gently before turning to face me. Reaching for me, he reels me in and wraps his arms around me, placing a soft kiss on my lips. "Thank you," he breathes.

I'm happy to return his hug and kiss, but this reaction surprises me. "For?"

He shrugs. "Noticing. I just …" He shakes his head and kisses me again, and that seems to sum up his feelings nicely.