“He said the house feels silent without you here.”

Her lips twitch as she tries to hold back her laughter. “I think that just means I talk too much or play my music too loud.”

“No way.” Luke sighs. “I love talking with you. And playing music with you.”

There’s a beauty in children his age saying what they mean. They don’t wonder how it will come off, or if someone might read too much into it. If it’s in their heart, they say it. I know Luke loves talking with Willa, and it makes my chest ache.

Especially when she gives him the full, megawatt smile that lights her up head to toe, ruffles his hair, and says, “I love talking with you too, buddy.”

“We’re cooking you dinner,” Luke announces.

“We’re cooking dinner,” I clarify. “Of course, you’re welcome to join us.”

I don’t want her thinking I’m downright obsessed with her.

I don’t want her knowing I did kind of . . . notice her absence. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but I’ve gone from being annoyed by her presence when I get home from a hard day’s work to smiling as I kick off my boots and listen to her and Luke laugh or talk together.

Music to my fucking ears.

“You boys are amazing chefs. Count me in.”

I go back to peeling potatoes in the sink beside Luke but say, “Let’s put some different music on for Willa.” It’s the perfect opportunity to get rid of whatever this happy, danceable shit is.

Horrified, Luke asks me what's wrong with “Watermelon Sugar”, but before I can answer, Willa tilts her head at me and says, “Yeah, Cade. You got something against Harry Styles?”

I glance over at their wide eyes. One set offended, the other amused. “It’s just so . . . pop-y.”

“I have an idea.” Willa’s hand snaps up, and then she strides out of the kitchen.

I try not to stare at her ass in the denim cutoffs she’s wearing.

I fail.

Then I’m back to the potatoes, skinning them aggressively while trying to monitor Luke’s precious little fingers. He’s focusing so hard that his tongue is captured between his lips, eyes narrowed.

He looks . . . grown-up. I know he’s not yet, but he’s also not the fully dependant toddler he once was. He doesn’t wake me up multiple times a night. He can get his own cereal out for breakfast.

It’s terrifying.

The music shuts off, and I turn to the kitchen table where Willa has pulled a chair out for herself and has a beautiful, ornate acoustic guitar slung over her lap. “What should I play?”

Luke shouts for her to play “Watermelon Sugar” before he drops the knife and sits to watch her.

I can’t blame him. She’s practically glowing.