“All right, there’s a few breakfast places around here and—” he squinted at the clock over the oven “—if we go soon, we’ll probably beat the brunch rush. Oh, shit. Shitshitshitshitshit!” John stood up and strode across the room to the kitchen table, where he’d set his phone down when he came in.

“What is it?” Mary asked.

John groaned when he double-checked his calendar, even though he already knew what he’d find. “Shit. I’m so sorry, but I totally forgot to cancel on my dad. I had brunch plans with him. And now he’s definitely already on his way to the place. It’s too late to cancel.” He looked up at Mary miserably. All he wanted was to have a casual breakfast with her. To stuff her full of hash browns and eggs and orange juice. He wanted to fortify her against the world. He wanted to watch her sip coffee in that beautifully colorful dress of hers and know that she’d changed into that dress in his apartment that morning. Was that too much to ask of the universe? Apparently.

Mary cocked her head to one side. “What’s the big deal? Do we not have time to get there or something?”

John felt something lift off in his gut. We? “You...want to come along?”

“Oh.” She instantly went bright red. “I didn’t mean to invite myself. I just thought—I’m hungry! I’m not thinking straight.”

He chuckled at her flustered expression, her pink cheeks. “No, that’s okay. It just hadn’t occurred to me that you’d want to join us. But sure, yeah. It’s a good brunch spot in Brooklyn Heights, and then we can head over and get your door fixed after.”

“If you’re sure I won’t be intruding?”

John vehemently shook his head. If she was volunteering her company, he was accepting it. Time spent with his father wasn’t exactly the easiest, and John was extremely eager to see how having a Mary Trace buffer would affect the quality of it. Although...

“I should probably warn you...” He cleared his throat. “I’ve never brought anyone to meet my father before, and he’ll probably think that we’re together. No matter what we say.”

Mary traced a line of gray fur on Ruth’s chest, her eyes cast downward, her cheeks still pink. “I don’t mind that.”

John’s mind instantly and ferociously examined that phrase, turning it over, catching every possible light against every possible surface. She didn’t mind someone thinking they were together? She didn’t mind his father being obtuse and stubborn?