“Impressive,” I say, trying not to sound begrudging. Of course he’s beating me. He always beat me at Scrabble too.

  He scoops the ball out of the hole, tossing it proudly like it’s a pair of keys to a Rolls. Only two more holes, and we’re done. Two more holes till I can peel out of here and hit the gas pedal.

  The image of Juliet naked in the tub, luxuriating in bubbles, keeps me going. Shame she hasn’t sent a selfie, but there’s still time. Don’t even know if there’s bubble bath stuff at the house. But my dirty mind has decided there is.

  “Good game so far. Your golf game is better than I expected,” Dad says.

  Hello, backhanded compliment.

  I bite back all the comebacks forming. Like, because you thought I’d fail at that too? If I were my own shrink, I’d give me a slow clap for saying evenly, “I play in the city.”

  Ha. How’s that for a placid response?

  “Nice. You get out to the links often, I imagine?” he asks as we stroll up the hill to the second-to-last hole.

  The implication. Dear god, the implication. “Just enough,” I say tightly.

  Don’t take the bait.

  I peer ahead, then behind, hoping someone will spot him again, and hoist the conversational burden from me. Everyone here at the Duck Falls Golf Course knows him since this place is frequented by co-workers from the university where he teaches and the hospital where he’s performed life-saving surgeries.

  We’ve played the back nine as the afternoon melts into evening, and he’s been stopped a few times along the way, by friends and colleagues in golf carts or walking the course, wishing him well. He’s made sure they all know about his retirement party this weekend, and that they’re all coming.

  No surprise, they all are.

  But would it kill someone, anyone—a shop owner, a nurse, the barista who serves him his green tea every day since tea is better for the brain—to magically appear right now?

  I peer around. No such luck.

  Dad clucks his tongue as we walk. That’s his thinking sound. We’re heading past a copse of trees. Some are maple, and instinctively, I glance down at the tree on my forearm. Dad wasn’t like this when she was alive. He wasn’t so arrogant, so obsessed, so disappointed. Back then, he joined us in the tree house she built. He went out for bike rides after she taught me how. He played board games in the kitchen with us for fun, not to decimate.

  I dig down, trying to find the compassion to fill the silence. “I guess you’re looking forward to the party?” I ask, right as he speaks too, saying, “How are those online studies going? That’s what you’re in town for?”

  We both laugh awkwardly. He gestures with his club. “You go first.”

  Briefly, I contemplate dodging the topic of why I’m in town. But it’s best I tell the truth. Once we put that home on the market, it won’t be a secret. It’d be another rift between us if I don’t mention it.

  “Yes. I’m working on the online course.” I clear my throat, then add, “But also a listener gifted us a house. Here in Darling Springs.”

  He stops his pace near a sand trap, sounding a little like a robot reprogramming its motherboard as he sputters, “What? How? Why?”

  “It’s a gift deed,” I start to explain, but he cuts me off.

  “I know what a gift deed is. You mean, a listener of the podcast just gave it to you? Heartbreakers and Matchmakers?”

  I’m the surprised one now. “You know the name of the podcast?”

  “Yes. I do, Monroe.” It’s said firmly, brooking no argument. “Why would someone give you a house?”

  “She lost her first husband. She’s off on a honeymoon with her new guy, and she said she wouldn’t have had the courage to pursue this romance if not for us,” I say, bracing myself for a snide comment. Or another backhanded compliment.

  Instead, there’s only the sound of the leaves rustling in the early evening, the birds chirping as they settle. Then a contemplative huh as his eyes look a little lost. Finally, he clears his throat, maybe clearing some unexpected emotion too as he says, “That’s terrific.”

  I’m not sure if the terrific news is the widow finding love again or giving us a house.

  We reach the hole, but the group ahead of us must not be finished since a put-together woman in khaki shorts and a mint green polo swings her club gracefully, then watches the ball soar. When it lands far, far away, she gives a fist pump. “Yes,” she says, cheering herself on.

  She spins around, then blinks, before she quickly smiles. “Hello, Doctor Blackstone,” she says. She’s about my dad’s age, with mahogany skin and tight black curls under a golf visor. She has the poised demeanor of a fellow doctor, and I’m not at all surprised when my dad says, “Good to see you, Doctor Wesley. Retirement must be treating you well.”

  “I can’t complain,” she says, then nods up ahead. “I’m golfing with my daughter.”

  “Excellent,” he says, then claps me on the shoulder. “This is my son. Doctor Monroe Blackstone.”

  Of course that’s how he’s introducing me. I can hear what’s unsaid in the back clap too. Don’t tell her you’re not practicing.

  I extend a hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “And you,” she says, warmly, then to my father she adds, “I see it runs in the family.”

  Yes, medicine does. As well as the inability to sustain a relationship.

  “Yes, it does. I trust your daughter is keeping the practice going?”

  “Of course she is,” Doctor Wesley says with obvious pride.

  “Wonderful,” my father says, and it’s a miracle he can get that one word out without coating it in the jealousy he must feel. He shifts gears quickly. “I’ll see you this weekend though?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she says, then her gaze lingers briefly on my father with a hint of appreciation—maybe attraction—in her eyes.

  Save yourself. Find someone else. The Blackstone men are no good.

  “I better go,” she says. Then, smiles at him. Just him. “Jameson.”

  He smiles too. “Jada.”

  Is my father fucking flirting? Kill me now.

  I’m going to pretend that never happened.

  I hunt for topics to tackle next just in case he’s thinking of telling me something about his romantic life, but he speaks first when she’s out of earshot, saying, “I was just thinking. Would you be willing to give a speech at the party? Right after the cocktail hour.”

  Did I hear him right? He wants the son who disappointed him to extol his virtues? “You want me to give a speech for you?”

  There’s nothing but yes in his eyes. “Who better than my son?”

  Anyone. Literally anyone. “What do you want me to say?” We’re not close. We’re not friends. Does he want me to lubricate the path for him to Jada? That’s just weird. And it’s not happening.

  “Something appropriate for a retirement party. That sort of thing. You’re good with words,” he says, and I wait for the dig that’s sure to follow.

  But nothing more comes, so I set up the ball on the tee to keep busy. “So, something like he’s a great doctor and teacher?”

  Dad beams. “It’s practically writing itself.”

  Not exactly.

  “And maybe how you’re glad everyone is here,” he adds. “How nice it is to see everyone. Like all your friends.”

  Wait. What? He better not mean kids from high school. The last thing I want is a high school reunion vibe. There’s a reason I don’t do those things. The reason being high school sucked. “Who?”

  It’s a miracle I don’t breathe fire when I ask.

  His smile is gregarious. “Sawyer. Carter. Gage. Juliet. Axel. Those kind of friends. My assistant sent out invites this afternoon,” he says, then points to the tee, move it along style.

  But I can’t move on. I drag a hand through my hair, brow pinched. “You invited my friends?”

  “Yes. You’re always mentioning them on the podcast. So I thought it’d make it more enjoyable for you,” he says, and the therapist in me appreciates the effort, but the son is still struggling, especially when he just motions to the tee once more, moving on. “We’re going to get all bunched up.”

  I turn to the tee. I’m not even sure what’s happening anymore as I take a swing, feeling totally disconnected from my body.

  I’m giving a speech, everyone is coming to my father’s party, including his new crush, and he listens to my podcast.

  22

  JUST YOU

  Monroe

  There’s still no dirty bathtub pic from Juliet, but that’s no excuse for me to show up empty-handed when I return. I take a detour to Main Street on the way home, pulling over at The Slippery Dipper.

  Grateful the store is still open at eight in the evening on a Wednesday, I hustle inside, scan the offerings, and grab a bath bomb. The scent is honey and cinnamon. Sounds good enough to eat and that describes Juliet, so I grab one. As I’m checking out, I spot a vanilla body spray.

  When in Rome and all.

  I snag that too, then set them down on the counter. The man at the register has a young dad vibe, tired but affable with red hair and fair skin. “How’s your evening going?”

  “Great,” I say, choosing to answer how it will be rather than how it was. “And you?”

  “Not so bad.” He glances down at my purchases. “Good picks. My wife loves this bath bomb.”

  “Good to know.”

  He lifts a curious brow. “Want them wrapped?”

  Dude is brilliant. “Sure. Good call.”

  He gives an easygoing smile. “Had a feeling.”

  I’m not usually this chatty with anyone but close friends. But I’m damn curious about something. “Do I give off buying a gift for a woman vibes?”

  His smile widens and he nods knowingly. “Big time, man. Big time.”

  Yeah, I’m a little obvious, but I don’t mind. When he’s done, I take the wrapped gifts, and thank him.

  “Hope your—” he stops, perhaps rethinking girlfriend or wife, understandably, then shifts to, “Hope she likes them.”

  Out of nowhere, my chest aches for a few seconds with the unsaid words. With a wish. But there’s no time to linger. “Me too.”

  The bell chimes as I leave, and I’m about to hop back in the car, when I make a game day decision and rush into the bougie gourmet market next door. Juliet likes food, so I head to the deli counter and order a veggie grinder to go. With Gouda cheese of course. Then, a second for myself since it sounds good.

  I don’t call first and ask if she’s hungry. If she cobbled together a meal while I was gone, this will keep till tomorrow. It’s more of a gift this way.

  At the self-checkout, the man in front of me is buying a pretty bouquet of flowers and a box of cereal. That’s a good idea. I spin around, head to the floral section and grab some orange, peach and yellow roses that look like firecrackers. I grab one more thing for tomorrow’s date with the brewer then I’m done and out of there.

  But once I’ve returned to the house and punched in six-nine-six-nine, the home is eerily quiet.

  Hmm. That’s odd.

  With the bags and bouquet in hand, I scan the living room. It’s dark. The kitchen looks dark from here too. It’s only eight-thirty. Maybe she conked out early? I toe off my shoes and pad quietly, just in case, but the hair on the back of my neck prickles with worry.

  Fuck quiet.

  “Juliet? Honey? Are you okay?”

  I turn down the hall. No answer.

  I pick up the pace, my heart skittering ridiculously with worry. Where is my Juliet and is everything okay? I turn into the bedroom, and my shoulders relax. She’s here. But she’s curled up on her side, hands tucked in prayer under her cheek. “Hey,” she says, groggily.

  My heart goes too soft. “I didn’t mean to wake you up,” I say, then close the distance and sit on the bed, snapping into practical mode. “Are you tired? What’s wrong? What can I do for you?”

  She winces, her hand coming to her forehead gingerly. “I think I have a migraine.”

  I set down the gifts on the bedroom floor, and take her hand, rubbing it. “Did you take Tylenol? Do you get migraines regularly? If so, do you have headache meds with you and where are they?”

  She shakes her head. “I think it was the paint. The fumes got to me after a while.”

  “Paint is the devil. But I thought you were supposed to leave it for me,” I say, sternly.

  “I wanted to finish it. To surprise you.”

  My heart tries to fight its way out of my chest. “You didn’t have to do that for me. You weren’t supposed to.”

  “Bossy.”

  “Yes. Because I wanted to finish it. For you.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t fight you for the last wall. The paint tried to kill me. I had to lie down. I fell asleep for a couple hours.”

  I rub her hand more, unable to stop touching her. “Does it still hurt? It’s good that you’re lying down in the dark.”

  “It does still hurt.”

  Her small nod breaks my heart. “Let me get you some Tylenol.”

  She doesn’t fight me on this either. “Thanks. I need it.”

  I reach for the sandwich in the bag, brandishing the brown paper. “If you’re hungry, I got you a sandwich.”

  “I love sandwiches,” she says.

  I drop a kiss to her forehead, then whisper. “I know.”

  I take off on a mission to do whatever I can to make her feel better. Back in town, I rush into The Slippery Dipper, which is closing in five minutes. The man greets me with a curious smile. “Hey there…”

  But there’s no time for details. “I need a lavender eye mask.”

  “Gotcha,” he says with a crisp nod, recognizing a spa emergency when he sees one.

  Next, I’m back in the gourmet store, buying the world’s most expensive Tylenol, then I’m zipping back to the house. The lights are still low, but this time, one shines dimly from the bathroom. The door’s open, so I follow the soft glow, and…

  Holy shit.

  She is in the tub. She smiles at me. “Took the doctor’s advice.”

  I drink in the sight of her in the claw-foot bathtub, draped in bubbles, with only the faintest lights on. It smells like warmth, of honey and cinnamon. Her hair’s piled high in a bun, wet strands framing her face.

  I’m strangely glad she never sent me a photo. Not that I’d wish a headache on her. But there’s no picture that would compare to how it feels to see her here, like this, in the flesh.

  I could stare all night, but I shake off the clutching feeling in my chest, filling a cup of water from the sink and offering her some Tylenol. She swallows them, then hands me the cup. I set it down on the vanity.

  She gestures to the bubbly tub. “Hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of opening the gift.”

  “It was for you,” I say, and I can’t take my eyes off her.

  “I had a feeling.”

  “I’m glad you opened it.”

  “Me too. I feel a tiny bit better.” She nibbles on the corner of her lips, giving me an apologetic look. “But not integrity-ruining better.”

  I roll my eyes. “Woman, there is no integrity being ruined tonight. I want you to feel better. I want you to feel good again.”

  She looks at me, her gaze holding mine. “I do now.”

  I close the toilet seat, sit down on it, and hang out with her as she relaxes in the hot water. When she’s done, I get her a big, fluffy towel, and wrap her in it, pressing a chaste kiss to her neck. “Let’s get you back in bed.”

  A few minutes later, she’s in her jammies and settling into bed. “I put the sandwiches in the fridge. I’ll have mine for breakfast,” she says.

  “Sandwiches for breakfast sound good.”

  “It’s a date then.”

  I can’t wait for it. I dart out to the kitchen, heat up the eye mask for twenty seconds in the microwave, so it’s warm, then return to the bedroom and hand it to her. “Got you this just now. It should help.”

  She takes it and sets it on her eyes as she lies down. “You must be The Slippery Dipper’s best customer tonight.”

  I sit on the bed with her. “I think I am.” Then, impulsively, I add, “I thought of you when I was there.”

  I can’t see her eyes twinkling, but her playful smile tells me they are as she asks, “Yeah? What did you think about?”

  Maybe it’s easier to say this when she can’t look at me. When she can’t disarm me with those bright green eyes. Or maybe she’s already disarming me. I lie next to her. “The day I saw you there,” I admit, my stomach fluttering annoyingly.

  “Hmm. I don’t remember that day,” she says, her lips twitching.

  “Evil woman.”

  “Is that where I ran into you?”

  I dip my face, nip her shoulder. “You know you did.”

  She wiggles. “Maybe you should remind me.”

  I can see it so perfectly. I can feel it too. “You were reaching for a heart-shaped soap. I was grabbing the one next to it. Maybe, possibly, I let my hand slide so it touched yours.”

  “And here I thought you were good with your hands.”

  “I was. It wasn’t accidental, Juliet.”

  A tremble moves through her body. It’s beautiful to see. “Fine, tell me more about this un-accidental touch.”

  I close my eyes too. I can’t look at myself in the mirror as I tell this story. “I recognized you. I hadn’t seen you in a few years, but there you were. My good friend’s sister. And none of that mattered. All I thought was, I have to see her again.”

  “I’m starting to remember this,” she says, but then tilts her head closer to me, tapping her chin. “Did we see each other? It’s a little fuzzy with this headache.”

  I laugh softly. “We saw each other. At the arcade, at the movie theater, the beach. The tent.”

  “Ahh. It’s coming back to me now.”

  But so’s the ending too. That’s the problem. We’d only spent a week together, but I wanted more. Only, it wasn’t feasible. Hell, it’s not feasible now. We have too much at stake. But more than that, I don’t trust myself to be the man she needs. One failed marriage and a handful of short-term relationships that fizzled, too, are proof that my skills lie elsewhere. If I even tried, I’d probably turn out just like my dad, which means I’d be just as unworthy of her as the other guys she’s met. I won’t do that to her.