Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
“I’ll take them to school so you can get to it.”
“You sure?”
“Of course. You’ll be busy when I’m out of town. And Elle won’t have them till the weekend after this one.”
“Right,” I say, since Tyler’s shared a schedule with me already. The kids are with him most of the time since Elle’s swamped with med school, but she’s got them a couple weekends a month, and a few nights here and there. I’m glad she’s still involved in their life—for them, of course, but also for him. Being a single parent with a full-time job that takes you out of town a lot is hard.
I don’t want to infringe on the time he has with his children, so I make my way to the staircase that leads to the garden apartment as Luna trots down from the second floor to the main one. But before I round the corner, Tyler calls out, “Do you want to build a taco?”
It’s sung, and it sounds exactly like the famous song “Do You Want to Build a Snowman,” and it tells me that Tyler watches Frozen with his kids.
I can’t resist singing back, “It doesn’t have to be a taco.”
A few seconds later, Luna’s joining in, inviting me to build a taco too. It’s tempting. Truly it is, especially with the a cappella invite, but I should let them be a family. “Thank you, but I’m all good.”
They both serenade me more as I head down the stairs. I nearly turn around and join them.
A couple hours later, I’m researching wildlife sanctuaries in the area for Luna, how far they are from here and the programs they offer, when there’s a knock on my door.
When I open it and see Tyler standing there, he’s quick to say, “The kids are getting ready for bed. Do you want to build a taco now? It’s pretty fun. Parker made the Big Dipper, which is an asterism, as he likes to remind me, because god forbid I not know every detail about the stars. Luna made a taco cat, with lettuce as the tail, and everyone got gummy bears. And there’s more than enough.”
My first instinct is to say no. I’m not sure I need any more awkward moments with this sexy man.
But then he goes for the kill with: “And I figured you and Luna eat the same things, so there are plenty of veggies for you.”
That does it for me—the way he noticed this little detail. “How did you…?”
“I paid attention,” he says, and I replay when he would have figured that out. I haven’t mentioned my personal food preferences to him, and we haven’t eaten together…except. Holy smokes. He remembered from the nachos on my wedding night? When I said no meat. This man’s memory is…sexy.
My stomach growls in appreciation for his offer for so many reasons. Maybe especially because Chad was always goading me to eat medium-rare burgers or braised fish or Chicken Pad Thai. Like my not eating meat was some kind of challenge he needed to win. But my nothing with a face choice wasn’t about control or perfectionism. It is just who I am. It is my choice and mine alone.
“Veggie tacos sound perfect,” I say, meaning it. Because he’s not trying to change me—he’s just listening.
As we head upstairs, I say, “But what did you make with your taco?”
“A puck,” he says, his voice low and rumbly, like he knows how that word sounds—a little bit dirty.
And I like it too much.
13
THE FIRST TWENTY-FOUR HOURS ARE THE HARDEST
Sabrina
It’s an age-old question about figure skating—do you ever get used to the early mornings, or do the early mornings get used to you? While I can wake at four-thirty, I wouldn’t say I spring free from my bed.
But muscle memory drags me out. To the bureau, where I grab leggings, a sweater, and a sports bra. To the bathroom, where I brush my teeth, loop my hair into a ponytail, and get dressed. Then to the garage, where I hop into my car, spotting a small canvas bag on the floor of the backseat. I must not have grabbed everything in the move yesterday so I make a note to snag that later, pulling out before the sun’s even thinking about rising. I drive through the quiet pre-dawn city, cruising along with doctors, nurses, and other early risers, the scent of the car’s cinnamon apple air freshener tickling my nose. Soon, I reach Sunnyside Rink where I rent ice for my lessons from the rink’s owners. An older couple, Hank and Marla Dawson, were both college hockey players. They met in school, fell in love, and opened this rink together.
With a key I’ve used countless times, I unlock the heavy double doors, then go inside and punch in a code on the alarm, silencing it before it goes off.