Page 44 of Between the Lines

When I don’t reply, mulling over what to say, Fia turns towards me. I grip the worn leather steering wheel tightly, fighting with myself—over my wants, over my needs, over the fucking lines and rules—but when I meet her frazzled gaze, I can’t hold it in anymore.

“Just let me make you dinner tonight.”

She laughs like she heard me wrong. “What?” Her fingers play with her gold earrings, and I pass the grocery store, leaving that option behind.

“I bought more salmon than one person can reasonably eat,” I say, turning the steering wheel with one hand down a pine-lined country road. “I already have it marinating.” When she continues to stare at me, lips slightly parted, I shrug, pulling my baseball cap tighter onto my head. “It would be a shame to let good food go to waste.”

“Caden, I don’t want to impose, seriously—” Fia fidgets, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

It’s evident she needs someone to throw her a line. I can give her a break, a little respite from cooking. It’s not that big of a deal. Even if the idea makes my heart rate spike.

I throw her a sheepish smile. “Please don’t make me eat alone on a Saturday night.”

Fia sighs, but a smirk pulls on the corner of her lips. “Okay, yeah. Not cooking tonight would be great.” She places her hands back in her lap. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, Hanson,” I reply, rubbing my jaw.

That’s just something people say. Anytime, pal! But as we drive in comfortable silence back to my house, there’s a shift in the humid Carolina air. Fia rests her head back against the cloth passenger seat and takes a deep breath, settling a bit.

My own hand softens its grip on the wheel.

Because I’m beginning to realize that anytime means anytime . . . beginning to realize that there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for this girl.

18

Fia

Idraw the curtains shut, because the last thing I can handle is being in this fishbowl of a guesthouse while ravaging through the bags of clothes I brought with me.

“Why didn’t I pack anything decent?” I hiss out to Daisy, who has crawled inside the tipped-over laundry hamper.

And why am I trying to wear something decent anyway?

“It’s just dinner. We all have to eat,” I pointedly tell her as she plays with a stack of my gold bracelets. I have no idea where she even found those.

Sure, salmon sounds a lot better than the box of mac ’n’ cheese I was going to make. And not having to cook or clean up sounds heavenly . . . Plus I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious what Caden was like on a Saturday night in his own home. We’ve had little moments together—I’ve driven with him in his car more often than I ever thought I would, but dinner is different.

It’s intimate.

Just then the phone rings. It’s my sister.

“Damn it,” I mumble, and send her to voicemail. Now is not the time.

In a hurry, I grab the only item of clothing that’s not wrinkly—a mini sundress—and slip it on.

This will probably be the first and last time he invites me and my daughter over for dinner. I’m not sure if he knows that eating with a toddler is anything but peaceful. I mean, for heaven’s sake, he held a child for the first time today.

I kiss the top of Daisy’s head, setting her on the bed, then change her into soft floral pajamas and toss her pacifier and snack cup into my purse. Luckily, I already fed her.

“Let’s get this over with.”

But before I leave the guesthouse, I apply a little pink lip gloss, spritz some perfume on my neck, and ignore the fact that my heart is beating so fast I can’t see straight.

19

Caden

Iset the salmon on the counter and gaze down at my chest. My linen button-down shirt felt casual earlier, but now I’m wondering if it’s too formal. I unbutton the top three buttons, like somehow showing my chest will make it better.