Her eyes shifted to the side, and he saw how tired they were. “It’s not a long weekend, Killian. It’s . . . I need just some time off. I’m full-time mommy, full-time real estate agent, and . . .” She blew out a breath. “I’m seeing someone.”

That took him by surprise. “Oh.”

“He’s really nice,” she rushed on to say. “He’s forty-five, a mortgage broker. No kids of his own, but he’s good with Charlie. They’ve met a few times, but I’ve only told Charlie he was my friend.” She smiled a little. “It’s not serious yet, but I hope it will be. He wanted to take me away for a week and when you weren’t being plugged in, I just panicked. I’m sorry.”

“A mortgage broker.” He smiled at the job title, something so completely commonplace. The total opposite of his job. “That’s good, Emma.” She was nearly ten years his senior, and he’d wondered as she approached forty, if she would ever want to find a man and marry. Maybe have another child or two. He didn’t begrudge her the opportunity, and jealousy had no place in their relationship. They’d never been in love. But . . . “Does he know?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. Blonde tendrils of her professional twisting updo fell around her ears and she pushed them back. “He knows Charlie’s father lives out of state and sees him when he can, and that we were never married or anything. But not, you know, details.”

The details were potentially a deal breaker for anyone. “Emma, I don’t wanna tell you how to run your life but—”

“I know, Killian.” Her voice hardened. “I know. If he’s not the guy for me, I’ll figure it out before I share that little tidbit. If he is, then he won’t hold my past against me.”

Fear was like a struggling worm against a hook in his heart. It was all he could do not to reach across the table, grip her arms, and beg her not to say a word to anyone. For Charlie. But on the same side of the coin . . .

“I’ve sort of met someone, too.”

She raised a brow. “Did you?”

“Not like that,” he said, shooting her a narrow look. “She’s nice. It’s not like before. She’s not a groupie or . . . you know.” Even years later, he tried not to use the word in case it offended Emma.

“A call girl? Escort?” She smiled at that, as if amused by her former self. “Well, that’s good. Enough time has passed, you know. Maybe nobody will even put two and two together.”

“We agreed not to risk it,” he said in a low voice. “Both of us. Just like we agreed to time our visits better than this, with no surprises. We agreed not to take chances.”

“And I said I’m sorry. You don’t have to remind me like I’m a child. I made a mistake.”

Charlie yelled in the distance, egging Despereaux on in whatever adventure he was currently partaking in. They both sat quietly for a moment, listening to their son’s eager, happy chattering and encouragement.

“I always feel so guilty,” she said quietly. “That his start was so abnormal. So surprising. I love him, and I don’t regret him, but I feel like he got cheated out of a really great childhood. He’s got a good one, but it could be great, with both of us nearby.”

“I know.” He held out a hand and Emma placed hers in it. He squeezed. “We’re doing the best we can. Dr. Phil doesn’t have any parenting books with the subtitle, Help, the media is after me!” He grinned. “I checked.”

She laughed and squeezed, then released his hand. Her bracelet clinked against the kitchen table as she put her palms down to stand. In her simple navy skirt and light blue button-down shirt, she looked every inch the successful real estate agent and single mother she was. Nobody would look at her and think she’d once been a high-priced call girl for any athlete ready to pay.

“So, should I make dinner or will you?”

He shook his head, putting away thoughts of Aileen for the evening. “I’ll run out and grab something. There’s a great Thai place not too far. Charlie still like Thai?”

Emma nodded and smiled. “This week, anyway. And Killian?” When he paused at the door, she pressed a cool hand to his cheek. “Thanks for not freaking out on me. I made a mistake. You’re a big enough guy not to rub my nose in it.”

“You’re Charlie’s number one mom.” He pressed a kiss to her temple and grabbed his keys off the hook by the door. “And besides, I’m a big enough screw-up myself.”

“That you are,” she said with a wink, and closed the door behind him.

* * *

Aileen paused in the midst of knocking on Killian’s door. Her phone beeped and she checked the text. Maybe it was Killian, asking her to come over. Wouldn’t that be a cute little moment, to say Check the door, stud, and be standing there?

But no, it was Bobby, reminding her she had a week to provide more compelling footage or she was DOA.

“Charming,” she muttered, then shoved the phone back in her tote. As she debated sending the little “Invite me over,” text to Killian herself, Mrs. Reynolds’ door opened.

“Oh, sweetie, it’s you.” Killian’s neighbor smiled warmly. “Why don’t you come in and sit with me awhile? I saw him leave a bit ago.”

Aileen blinked and looked at Killian’s closed door. “Really? This late in the evening?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, reaching for Aileen’s arm. “Wheel of Fortune is about to come on. I always need a little extra help with the puzzles. Why don’t you come in, and we’ll pass the time together? You can help with all the pop culture.” With one frail arm wrapped around Aileen’s wrist in a surprisingly firm grip, Mrs. Reynolds towed Aileen toward her apartment. “Tell me, do you know who this Ke-dollar sign-heh gal is? Why does she need a dollar sign? Is an ‘S’ not good enough?”

Aileen chuckled and let herself be pulled. But when Killian’s door opened behind her, she whipped her head around.

A woman, close to forty years old, in a neat button-down shirt and dark skirt, walked out into the breezeway holding the hand of a small boy in a bright red shirt and unruly brown hair.

“Are you sure you left Iron Man in the car?” the woman asked carefully. “I don’t remember packing him.”

“Yes,” the boy said. “He’s in there. And I neeeeeeeeed him.”

Mrs. Reynolds relaxed her grip and sighed. “Well,” she muttered, “I tried.”

“Mrs. Reynolds,” Aileen said slowly. “Who—”

“Daddy said after the season’s over, we’re having a whole Avengers marathon.” The boy bounced on the balls of his scuffed tennis shoes as they headed down the staircase.

Aileen froze. Daddy? Her mind flashed back to the call the night before. The prank call, he’d said, when someone asked for Daddy.

No. There was no way. He wouldn’t have outright lied to her, would he have?

Of course he would have. He never wanted to do the interview in the first place, a little sinister voice whispered.

Give him the benefit of the doubt, she ordered herself. Even though it looked hopeless.

She went and knocked on Killian’s door while Mrs. Reynolds watched in unabashed curiosity.

“I told you, he left,” she reminded Aileen.

Aileen forced herself to take two calming breaths. Except they did nothing. She closed her eyes and let her forehead fall to the door.

Son of a bitch.

Mrs. Reynolds coughed loudly. “They’re coming back, dear.”

Aileen lifted her head in time to see the ice-blonde and the young boy approaching. In his hand, Iron Man rested.

“Hello,” the blonde said coolly. “Can I help you?”

“I . . .” Forgot my own name, apparently. “Hi. Is Killian available?”

“No, he’s stepped out.” The woman walked to the door, pausing while Aileen stepped out of the way. When she opened it, she shuffled the boy inside. She didn’t invite Aileen in—though why would she? They were strangers. “I can tell him you came by, though. What’s your name?”

“Just tell him Fr—Aileen came by. He’ll know why.” She stepped back, then couldn’t help but ask, “Are you his sister, by any chance?”