Page 64 of Double Fault

When my faithful companion starts right away, I sigh in relief. Then I head out.

Thirty minutes later, I pull up to Noah’s place. I let myself inside and leave my boots in a cubby in the mudroom. I’ve gotten in the habit since I left them sitting on the floor one day and Maddie tripped over them.

“Hey,” I call out. “I’m here.”

“Kitchen,” Noah responds.

I head that way and find him dumping smoothie ingredients into the blender, but his little sidekick is nowhere to be found.

“Where’s Maddie?”

“Still sleeping.”

“Wow.” I slide onto a stool. “That’s shocking.”

He presses the button, the loud whirl of the blender making conversation impossible until it’s done. “You want one?” he asks as he pours the greenish sludge into a cup.

I curl my lip in disgust. “I’m good.”

“It’s better than it looks.”

A shudder works its way through me. “I’ll take your word for it.”

He leans against the counter and takes a gulp of the vomit-colored liquid, then extends the glass to me. “Come on, try it.”

I hold out my hand and take a step back. “Keep your weird athlete juice away from me.”

“All right, all right.” He looks at the watch on his wrist. “Fisher should be here soon.”

“Do you want me to wake Maddie up or let her sleep in?”

Worry creases the small lines around his mouth. “Let her sleep. She had a nightmare last night.” His eyes drop to the floor and his body deflates. “About her mom.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” he draws out the word, then rests his forearms on the counter and roughs a hand over his face. “For the most part, she’s handled Annie’s passing well, but sometimes it gets to her.”

“She’s a kid,” I reason, my heart aching. “She lost her mom. That can’t be easy.”

“With any luck, she’ll feel better once she gets up. If you wouldn’t mind, could you text me and let me know?”

I give him a small smile. “I will.”

Noah may drive me crazy, but he’s still a dad doing his best for his daughter.

For a moment, we’re silent, but eventually he breaks the tension by clearing his throat. “Uh, do you want coffee or something?”

I don’t really want coffee, but hoping it’ll break up the awkwardness, I say, “Yeah, coffee would be great.”

Shoulders sagging in relief, he turns and busies himself. He pours the steaming hot liquid into a mug, then pulls the creamer from the fridge and adds a surprisingly perfect amount, along with sugar. When he’s doctored it just the way I like it, he slides it over the counter.

I wrap my fingers around the warm mug and bring it to my lips. “Mmm,” I hum as the flavor registers. “That’s good.”

He smiles, clearly pleased. “It’s this local blend I get. It has a hint of?—”

“Chocolate?” I take another sip. “And butterscotch?”

His smile broadens. “How could you tell?”

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