“And she’s doing better. You have that in your notes, right?”

My answer slides out almost on its own. “Yes.” I study her profile, suddenly overwhelmed with a need to give her something. “You know I’ve always thought of you as my mom, too, Ruth.”

Ruth blinks fast but her mouth stays in a firm line, her eyes keep their tightness, and she doesn’t respond except for a soft harrumph that makes me smile.

When we return, it’s dark out and my phone buzzes with a reminder that makes me adjust the clip in my hair. “I’m having dinner with Tate tonight,” I tell Ruth as we carefully pick our way through the ice on our way from her Jeep to the building. “He’s coming over to watch a movie.”

Ruth hits a slippery patch and starts to slide, but I stabilize my boot on the pavement and grab her arm to keep her upright. “Thanks,” she says, regaining her footing. “Have fun. He’s a good man, Claire, and he loves you, and you deserve to be loved, do you hear me? Write that down.”

My face turns hot. “Okay.”

She grunts. “Good.”

I look through the peephole before I open the door, and seeing him sends a jittery rush through my leg muscles. His hair is pushed up and out of his face, and even through the distortion of the peephole, I can see his clean-shaven face, his luminous green eyes. I touch my hair and lean into the door, breathing through a desire to yank it open and pull him into me.

He knocks and I step back and open the door. “Hi, Tate,” I say, trying not to act like the nervous teenage girl I feel like inside. He’s the man I remember but also different—older, broader, handsomer, if that’s even possible.

He smiles, hands me a bouquet of sunflowers and a note card. “You look beautiful.”

I look down to hide the blush spreading up my cheeks and read the card.

I live in Whittier with my daughter, Maree. You teach her guitar and she adores you. I know about the baby and I’m not married anymore. I love you, Claire.

The number four is written on the other side, so large it takes up the entire card. “Four?”

He runs a hand through his hair and I watch, desperately wishing it were my own fingers. “It’s our fourth date.” Then he leans in and brushes his lips against my cheek. I inhale oak and musk. It makes my legs go weak. “I love you, Claire,” he says and his voice is deep, smooth. “And I’m not g . . . g-oing anywhere, so you might as well get used to it.”

A giddy happiness explodes into a smile. “You’re already dropping the L word on the fourth date? Don’t you think that’s a bit fast?”