Chapter 8
I looked at Lily, already falling asleep against Celia’s shoulder.
“The hotel might not be safe,” I admitted.
Vincent said nothing.
Neither did Celia.
They were both waiting for me to make the choice.
It should not have mattered.
Yet it did.
“I’ll stay here tonight,” I said. “Only tonight.”
Vincent nodded.
“You may lock the nursery door.”
“I will.”
“And Emily?”
“Yes?”
“Keep the key.”
I looked down at it.
“Why?”
“Because it belongs to your story now.”
Dinner was served in a small kitchen rather than the formal dining room I had glimpsed at the end of the hall.
Celia made tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.
The simplicity surprised me.
I had expected chefs, silver trays, and a table too long for conversation. Instead, Vincent stood at the stove turning sandwiches while Celia sliced apples.
He had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
The feared Vincent Moretti was making grilled cheese.
I sat at the table, watching him.
“You’re burning that one,” I said.
He looked down.
A thin line of smoke curled from the pan.
Celia sighed. “He has many talents. Cooking is not among them.”
“I can cook.”
“You can heat things until they surrender.”
Vincent lowered the flame.
I laughed before I could stop myself.
The sound felt unfamiliar.
For a second, everyone became still.
Then Celia smiled and returned to the apples.
Vincent slid the least-burned sandwich onto my plate.
“An achievement,” he said.
“It has one black corner.”
“Proof of effort.”
Lily sat in a high chair borrowed from the nursery, dropping small pieces of bread onto the floor.
Vincent retrieved each one with growing resignation.
“She’s training you,” I said.
“She is effective.”
“She’s fourteen months old.”
“That does not prevent strategy.”
Lily dropped another piece.
Vincent looked at her.
She looked back.
Then, very slowly, she smiled.
He surrendered and picked it up.
The moment was so normal that it hurt.
Ryan had rarely joined us at the table after Lily was born. He worked late, or said he had calls, or ate in front of the television while scrolling through his phone.
I had told myself families went through tired seasons.
I had not realized ours had become a waiting room.
Celia carried the soup bowls to the sink after dinner.
May you like
Vincent wiped Lily’s hands with a damp cloth.
She examined him with suspicion.
