I worry I’ll leave him the way our mom left us. Suddenly. Tragically.

Now I don’t feel like being out at all. I want to be home, with him tucked in safely in the room next to me or—as still often happens on weekends—in the same bed as me. Because for all his wildness, Luke is a cuddler. Softhearted beneath it all.

“I think I’m gonna head out,” I say to Willa. “You okay to catch a ride with the others?”

She starts at my change of subject, but she also doesn’t miss a beat and slides her pint glass onto the table, this time touching my knee as she does. “Nah. I’d rather go with you.”

I know she doesn’t mean it the way I’m thinking. That she’d literally rather spend time with me than out with everyone else.

But it’s kind of nice to dream about all the same.

* * *

The ride back to the ranch is quiet. Willa watches out the window like the dark, flat fields are super interesting. She went from boisterous and social at the bar to silent and introspective as soon as we got in the truck.

I wish I had the balls to ask her what she’s thinking. But I don’t.

I’m worried she’ll bring up what I said to her on the dance floor. I’m worried she’ll ask me about us again. I’m worried my attraction to her is becoming all too obvious. And I don’t want to become the creepy dad hitting on the babysitter.

Even though she’s twenty-five and clearly isn’t doing this because she needs the money.

“Hey . . .” I say, examining the dark road in front of me harder than is necessary.

Her head quirks in my direction, and in the truck's dark cab, she’s all creamy skin and soft hair.

“Do you mind if we check in at the main house and make sure everything is okay with Luke?”

I don’t want to sound like some insane helicopter parent. I try so hard not to be, even though I’m freaking out internally ninety percent of the time, hoping I’m doing this whole parenting thing right, often wishing I had someone to do it with, to explain my fears and failings to. Instead, I just close my eyes and hold on for dear life. Say a prayer that I can keep him alive into adulthood.

Her features soften, not a stitch of judgment on her face. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Sorry. I know it’s your weekend now. You’re probably sick of dealing with him.”