Page 12 of Fake Shot

“Hmmm.” The skepticism rolls around in the back of her throat, and that worry line appears between her eyebrows again. I know exactly where her mind is.

“It’s going to be fine. I promise.”

“It’s just ... you haven’t spent any time with him alone since?—”

“I know,” I say, not wanting to talk about Vegas right now.Or ever, really. “Bad decisions were made, but I was in a different place then. Yes, my crush on him back then led me to make stupid choices, but that was a long time ago. I’m not going to lose control or be reckless.”

“I’m not worried about your decision-making abilities.” She gives me a sad smile. She should be, though. Because the only place in my life where I feel reckless and out of control is when I’m around Colt. Even now. Even though it’s been years since I had feelings for him. “I’m worried about your heart.”

“What heart?” I joke, but her smile doesn’t brighten. “Audrey, I have zero feelings for him and total control over my emotions. It’s going to be fine.”

I’ve set up my entire life so that I can avoid the kind of terrible choices I made in Vegas, when my jealousy and heartbreak, combined with too much alcohol, led me straight into the arms of someone who, as it turns out, I shouldnothave trusted.

“I worry about you, you know. Especially with how closed-off you’ve made yourself since?—”

“There’s no need to worry,” I remind her. “I am who I am, and I’m fine with it. I don’twantto date. I don’twanta relationship. I don’t ever again want to feel like I’ve lost control.”

“I know ...” she trails off when her phone buzzes, and she glances down at it on our kitchen table. We’ve been sitting here for half an hour, having a post-work debrief after I got home late from a job site and she finished up some house plans she was working on downstairs in the Our House office.

I watch her read the message, then she says, “Alright, Ihave to run. Graham’s baseball practice is wrapping up, and I told Drew I’d pick up dinner before they got home.” Now that it’s spring, Graham has hung up his skates for the season and is trying a new sport.

“Oh! You said you’d send me his game schedule. Don’t forget, okay?”

“Are you just asking because I told you how hot his coach is?” she asks, a hopeful glint in her eyes. I’m not sure she and my friends will ever stop suggesting guys to me, even though they know I don’t date.

“No.” I drag the word out. “But I’ve gone to almost every practice and scrimmage for Graham’s hockey team over the last two years he’s played. Of course I’m going to his baseball games as well.”

Audrey’s smile is practically a smirk. “Uh huh.” She says it like she’s trying to put ideas in my head, even though we both know it won’t work.

“Since I don’t want kids, the whole hot single-dad thing doesn’t really hold any appeal.”

“You might feel differently when you see him,” she teases.

“He’ll still have a kid.”

“Hey, you’re great with kids.”

“I’m an amazing aunt. That doesn’t mean I want my own children. But don’t worry, I’ll enjoy the eye candy during the games,” I promise her.

Audrey laughs as she slides her phone into her back pocket before carrying her coffee mug to the sink.

“Just leave it,” I say. “The dishwasher’s full of clean dishes, so I’ll add it in after I’ve put them away.”

“Alright. Thanks again for being open to this dinner withJerome. We’ll find the right donors, but to do so, we have to considerallour options.”

Once I say goodbye to my sister, I realize that I’m starving. I haven’t eaten anything since midday when I sat out on the lawn of Drew’s mom’s house, enjoying the lovely streak of warm spring weather and eating my sub. We’re almost done with the renovations that will allow her to continue living at home safely and comfortably as her Parkinson’s disease progresses, and then we’ll be starting a new project next week.

I turn to the fridge and start pulling out ingredients that I think will make a decent pasta dish. Half an hour later, I’ve got a bowl big enough to feed a family. I don’t know why I can’t make anything in portion sizes appropriate for one person. After years of cooking for Jameson, Audrey, and Graham, I guess I’m still figuring it out. At least this way, I’ll have leftovers for the next few days ... or until Jameson stops by again.

I’m grating some fresh parmesan over the bowl of pasta with Italian sausage, artichoke hearts, sun-dried tomatoes, and baby spinach in a white wine, garlic, and butter sauce, when the front door opens and my head snaps up.

For some reason, I’m expecting to see Audrey, even though she already texted me that she arrived home safely. It’s like my brain still hasn’t quite accepted that she doesn’t live here anymore. Instead, Colt walks through the door—and despite my earlier conversation with my sister, my brain definitely hasn’t registered the fact that hedoeslive here now.

Across the kitchen and entryway, our eyes meet. Then he looks away, his short-sleeve t-shirt stretching across the wide expanse of his upper back as he turns to lock the doorbehind him. It’s one of those fancy T-shirts that probably cost $200 on Newbury Street, whereas I’m standing here in the leggings and old Our House T-shirt I changed into after I got home from the job site.

“What smells so good?” he asks.

“Just some pasta I whipped up.”

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