Mary continued, “—stepping out of his car with . . . what’s that? Flowers? Ooh, I hope they’re for me . . . and a bottle of wine, maybe? Now I really hope that’s for me. And his eyes look up—jeez, his eyes. And then he sees us. Oh, that smile . . .”

   “Okay, Mary.” I stood up. “Thanks, but I don’t need your commentary.”

   Her laughter faded as I walked down the path, meeting Blake halfway. “What are you doing here?” It came out harsh, just how I intended.

   “Wow.” His eyebrows rose. “Someone’s pissy when they’re tired.”

   I let my shoulders relax but not my guard. “Seriously, Blake. What are you doing?”

   “You invited me for dinner,” he replied slowly, as if I were crazy.

   “That was before all that shit with Hannah! You can’t—”

   He pushed past, ignoring me. “You must be Mary?” I heard him say. I turned to them. He offered her the flowers. “These are for you.”

   Mary thanked him before pulling him in for a hug. She smiled huge, giving me a thumbs-up behind his back.

   Shit.

   He was going to charm his way in. Mary was still gushing when the front screen door slammed open against the planter box next to it.

   “Who the hell is this kid with his arms around my wife?” Dean yelled, a wide smile on his face.

   Blake and Mary pulled apart, finally.

   I stepped forward. “Dean, this is—”

   “Blake Hunter!” He couldn’t contain his excitement. “Well, well.” His gaze moved to me. “Ain’t that something?” Then to Blake, “Come on in, son! Welcome to our home.”

   Mary left and went to the store. Apparently, Blake’s presence was enough reason to cook a fancy meal. I could tell Dean was a little embarrassed by the house when he showed Blake around. He must’ve known the type of lavish lifestyle Blake was accustomed to.

   Our furniture was old and worn and nothing matched. But they had been used, well lived-in, and I had a feeling that Blake preferred what he was seeing to what he had. It wasn’t until Dean showed Blake his high school–basketball trophies and pictures that I detected a sense of pride in his voice. I left them alone and went to the kitchen to make us drinks.

   “You’re pissed?” His voice came from behind me.

   I kept pouring, my eyes fixed on the seven glasses on the counter in front of me.

   “You’re really good at the whole ignoring thing.” His hand clamped down on my wrist while the other removed the pitcher from my hand. “Did I do something wrong?”

   I had to laugh. “Your—” I cut myself off and lowered my voice. “Your girlfriend walked in on us sleeping tog— Not sleeping—”

   His chuckle broke through.

   “You know what I mean, and it’s not funny, Blake.”

   He set the pitcher on the counter and held my hands, turning me around, and bending his knees to look me in the eyes. He still had a smug smile on his beautiful face. “First, we weren’t doing anything wrong.” We had been, but I let that slide. “Second, my girlfriend walked in on us not doing anything wrong. If you should be mad at anyone, it should be her.” He straightened up, but he didn’t let go of my hands.

   “That’s ludicrous. I can’t be mad at her. She didn’t do anything! She caught her boyfriend in bed—”

   “So really . . . you have no reason to be mad at anyone?”

   My eyes narrowed.

   He laughed again.

   I wanted to stay mad, tell him that he was being a dick and that he was wrong, but I just couldn’t. Not when he was this close, laughing that same boyish laugh from last night. “You’re an ass.”

   “Maybe.” He shrugged. “But you like me, regardless.”

   “Is he your boooooyfriend?” Amy teased when we were back out in the yard. Her cap fell forward over her little seven-year-old head and covered her eyes.

   “No. And stop being a child,” I joked back.

   Then Dean chimed in. “Yeah, Chloe, is he your boooooyfriend?”

   Blake’s chuckle was enough to make me turn and glare at him. “No, Dean,” I retorted, my eyes never leaving Blake’s smug face. “Hunter has a girlfriend.” His smile fell. “She’s the head cheerleader and the hottest girl in the entire school,” I sing-songed.

   That shut everyone up.

   We sat on the porch steps outside and watched the kids while Mary and Dean cooked dinner.

   “Are all these kids . . . ? I mean, are they all adopted?”

   I glanced at him quickly, but he was gazing at the kids playing. Amy and Sammy were attempting to build a fort with branches and a bed sheet while Harry, the eldest at fourteen, was screwing around on a shitty old skateboard. “They’re all fostered. Mary and Dean haven’t adopted any of them yet. At the moment, they’re trying to get approval for Harry, so that will hopefully happen soon. But, no. Sammy, the youngest, he’s only been around for a few months. Amy has been here for over two years now.”

   “Dean and Mary? They don’t want their own kids?”

   “They can’t.”

   “Oh,” he said quietly.

   “Yeah . . .”

   I watched him as he looked around the yard. It wasn’t much, and the garden wasn’t maintained like his was, but no one had the time for any of that. “What—?” He cleared his throat. “What happened to their parents?”

   I sighed. “Another time, maybe?”

   “Okay,” he answered. But his tone was sad.

   “Blake?”

   “Mmm?”

   “We’re fine. We’re happy. Are you worried about something?”

   He sniffed once, but his eyes never left Harry on the board. “What happens to them? I mean, if no one wants them?”

   I tried to laugh. Tried to find a way to soothe his worries. “They become me.”

   His eyes snapped to mine. And I saw it then—a side to Blake I doubted he shared with anyone. This sad, vulnerable boy who cared. Our eyes stayed locked and the seconds felt like an eternity. The thumping of my heart against my chest began to ache. But I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t fight it—what it was that was happening to me. To us. To my entire world.

   “Blake . . .”

   He blinked once, breaking the connection. Then his gaze moved to Harry again. “Dude,” he yelled, standing up and walking toward him. “You almost had it that time. That was awesome! Do it again.”