Catherine turned to me. “Really?”
“Yeah. She picks paint colors and pillows like her life depends on it. That blue throw on the couch was apparently essential.”
“It’s cute.”
“Thanks. I’ll tell her you said that.” I said it quickly, then thought better of it. I had never brought up my daughter with women I’d hooked up with before. I was very good at compartmentalizing my life. Catherine was different. Isla was like family to her. Still, it made me wonder why someone young, single, and gorgeous would be interested in me. I knew that was my old demons being too loud, but I couldn’t help it.
She walked toward the living room, taking everything in. I liked watching her in my space, which was a problem. She looked too right standing there near Isla’s art on the side table and the framed photo of my parents on the shelf. Then her gaze moved to the dining table. I knew what she saw. The lit candles. I had lit the candles because the condo smelled like chicken andgarlic and lemon, and candles seemed normal. But on the dining table, with dinner set out for two, it looked romantic as hell.
Catherine turned slowly. “Hunter.”
“What?”
She pointed at the table. “Candles?”
“They’re for the smell of dinner,” I blurted.
“Dinner smells good,” she noted.
“Thanks. Knowing how to cook comes with being a single dad,” I said, needing to remind her of that fact in case she wanted to bolt.
She crossed her arms, and the sweatshirt slipped a little lower on one shoulder. I stared at her face like my life depended on it.
“I thought this wasn’t supposed to be romantic,” she said.
“It’s not.”
She arched a brow.
Her mouth twitched. “You’re bad at this.”
“I haven’t done this in a while.” My hands flailed. “Like a really long while.”
“That was obvious,” she giggled.
“Ouch.”
She smiled, and the whole condo felt warmer than it should have.
“I appreciate the effort,” she said.
I cleared my throat and nodded. “You want water?”
“Sparkling?”
“I said I’d get wild.”
She laughed. “Sure.”
I went to the kitchen because putting ten feet between us seemed smart. I grabbed two glasses, poured sparkling water, and tried not to think about how she looked at my table with candles on it like she wanted to tease me and maybe kiss me at the same time. When I came back, she was looking at the framedpicture on the bookshelf. It was Isla at eight, missing one front tooth, grinning beside me at the rink after a game.
“She’s so cute,” Catherine said.
I handed her the glass. “Yeah. She knows it too.”
“Did you hear from her?” she asked.
That question hit me hard. Asking questions about my daughter was my soft spot.