Page 79 of One Little Mistake

“Oh—yeah, sorry,” I mumble, blushing like always around this man, and step aside to let him in.

He takes his time fixing the faucet, asking about random things as he works. Offers to tag along to my doctor’s appointment next week. Says he could drive me and Tim to my grandma’s because it’s not the smartest idea to drive that far alone with a baby. I tell him I’ll think about it—I don’t feel like explaining to my grandma who this man is or why Tim’s father is no longer in the picture. She was so excited to help plan our wedding.

Max finishes up and stays for lunch. He watches Tim with obvious interest—says he looks like he’s grown in just a few days. And then… he leaves. Just like that.

No dinner invite. No hug. No kiss.

Just a simple “See you later,” and he’s gone. I stare at the door, feeling both disappointed and relieved at the same time.

Maybe what happened in the bathroom was just a heat-of-the-moment thing, and I really shouldn’t make any more mistakes.

Maybe I should just focus on my son, my work, and stop getting flustered by the first guy who’s shown me a little kindness.

Yes. Exactly.

I repeat this to myself all day.

And by evening, I’m unscrewing the lightbulb in my bathroom on purpose and texting Max to say I need help.

A little female trickery never hurt anyone.

Somehow, over the next week, we both keep coming up with the dumbest excuses to see each other.

Borrowing sugar.

Ironing pants to get that perfect crease.

Sharing homemade pie that’s suspiciously too much for one person.

I lie and say I can’t find my hairdryer and then pretend to search every corner of Max’s apartment. It’s ridiculous. But it’s also the first time in a long while I’ve felt alive. Like I’ve stepped into the past—back in high school, when I used to come up with the exact same kinds of excuses just to see the boy next door. The one who never even noticed me.

Sometimes, when we’re close, I “accidentally” brush against Max—just to feel the heat of his skin. And sometimes he’s the one who steps in too close, close enough that I think he’s going tokiss me again… but he doesn’t. Not even a touch. Like he’s afraid of something.

After another week, I start to feel like Max has unofficially moved in. He stays late almost every night, takes walks with us in the park, and drives me to the clinic. Somehow, effortlessly, he’s become part of my daily life. The crying baby doesn’t scare him. The fact that he spends most of his time with us doesn’t bother him. He even takes Tim out in the stroller so I can work on floral orders.

So I make a decision: I won’t rush him. I’ll let him get attached, let him miss us when we’re not around. Let him figure out on his own whether we mean something to him or not. Because if you move too fast—without understanding your own feelings—you’re bound to mess things up. To fall.

I’ll give him a month.

If he keeps pretending that nothing’s happening between us—that there’s no electricity in our glances, no flutter in our chests—then I’ll make the first move. His leave won’t last forever, and I do want more than just friendship.

Being near him has already started to erase the past. The memories of my ex, the sting of betrayal—they’ve begun to fade. His face, once so vivid in my mind, now feels distant. Dim. Just a smudge on the map of my life.

CHAPTER 29

Max

The knock on the door comes just as I’m about to collapse into bed. My first thought is that it’s Erin. A late-night visit usually means something happened, so I rush to open the door without thinking.

Since that night at Vivienne’s—when I lost it and nearly made a huge mistake with Erin—we’ve been spending a lot of time together, and slowly, I’ve gotten used to having her and the baby around. But I’ve kept my distance. I have my reasons. Good ones.

I open the door and find Logan standing there. Holding a bottle.

“I need to talk to you. Serious stuff. Mind if I come in?”

He looks like the last place he wants to be is my apartment, but something’s clearly pushed him here. Sweatpants, house slippers, narrowed eyes. He glances past me into the apartment.

“I still haven’t recovered from your last mystery brew,” I mutter. “I’m not exactly thrilled about a repeat.”

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