Page 90 of Mending Hearts
I step into host mode automatically, easing into something I know how to do. “Let me get you something warm,” I say. “What’s everyone drinking? Wine, beer, soda? I have an impressive collection of teas.”
I catch Ollie’s eyes flick to me—brief but sharp. Concern. Not about the alcohol itself. About me.
I hold his gaze for a second and say evenly, “I don’t drink, but I’ve got options. I’m good with it in the house.”
His shoulders drop a fraction.
Lindy nods immediately. “Chamomile tea for me, please. I need to relax after bribing a five-year-old with marshmallows.”
“Ollie?” I ask.
“Soda’s good.”
Phil gently shifts Amelia in his arms. “You got alcohol-free beer?”
“I do,” I say without hesitation. “Fridge.”
He gives me a grateful look.
I don’t ask. I know what it feels like to have every choice dissected. Every habit questioned. Every abstention treated like a confession.
I’ve built a career telling people to mind their business. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t grate sometimes.
Phil disappears down the hallway to settle Amelia into one of the guest rooms. Lindy drifts toward the kitchen island, rubbing her hands together for warmth.
“This place is gorgeous, Rafe,” she says, looking around properly now. “The views alone….”
“Worth the mortgage,” I say lightly, even though I’m full of it and paid cash.
Ollie leans against the counter, watching me move around the kitchen. It hits me suddenly that he’s never seen this version of my life. Not really. He saw LA. Hotels. Tour buses. Chaos.
He didn’t see the house I bought after rehab. The one I stood in empty and sober and tried to imagine a future in. And yes—if I’m being brutally honest—I did imagine him in it. Even when I told myself not to.
I pass Lindy her tea and slide a soda across to Ollie. Phil returns, rubbing his hands together.
“She’s out cold,” he says. “Didn’t even stir.”
I hand him the alcohol-free beer. He checks the label, nods once. “Perfect.”
We settle at the large dining table instead of the island this time. It feels more deliberate. More… family.
“So where’d you end up?” Ollie asks Lindy, easing into the chair beside her.
“Everywhere cold,” she says. “Pier 39. That weird candy shop that charges twelve dollars for fudge. And then we walked half a mile because Amelia decided she needed to ‘see a boat properly.’”
Ollie laughs softly. “She gets that from you.”
“No, she does not,” Lindy protests. “I’m reasonable.”
Phil snorts into his beer.
The conversation flows easily. They tell us about street performers and a dog wearing a sweater more expensive than my shoes. About Amelia insisting on waving at every passing boat captain like she was royalty.
It’s warm, normal—almost absurdly so after the last forty-eight hours.
At some point, Lindy tilts her head at me, mischief sparking. “Did he ever tell you about the Christmas concert incident?”
Ollie groans immediately. “No.”
