And I knew the casual way Mickey said them was the same way, but worse. Any woman was “babe” to him. Or his other, “darlin’.”

It wasn’t just me.

It wasn’t special.

I’d never been special.

I just was.

With all the rest, I pushed that aside, put the tin on the cooling rack and looked his way, answering, “Up here.”

“Go get ’em, son,” he said to Cillian.

Cillian darted back my way.

I got the tags and markers out of their drawer and gave them to Mickey’s boy. He raced back to his dad. Thus began a lot of activity, which included Mickey and Cillian pulling stuff out of their box, tagging it and calling to me to ask where to put it, as well as Aisling and me frosting and sprinkling cupcakes while we tidied the kitchen.

As tired as I was, as much as I was fighting my attraction to Mickey, I couldn’t help but admit that it felt good to have company. To feel activity around me. To hear the murmur of voices. To exchange words or shuffle by a body and get or give a smile as you did it.

I hadn’t had that in a while. Not on a regular basis in three years and not even frequently for the last ten months.

I liked it.

And Mickey had good kids, though that part wasn’t surprising.

We were done in no time and when we were, I found that I wished we weren’t.

This was because the second we were, Mickey said, “Time to get outta Miz Hathaway’s hair.”

To which Cillian instantly replied, “Can I have a bag of Reese’s cookies before we do it?”

Mickey grinned at his son. “You’re costin’ me a fortune in food, kid.”

Cillian grinned back, unrepentant, probably because he knew he was but he also knew his dad didn’t care in the least.

“Just to say,” I butted in and got two sets of blue eyes, “for neighbors, the goodies are free.”

“Not gonna raise cash for the league, you do that,” Mickey told me, wandering my way, his son doing the same and doing it close to his dad.

He made it to the opposite side of the counter, scanned the signs I already had set up to announce the prices of treats, and he did this pulling out his wallet.

“Really, Mickey,” I said. “Aisling helped me frost and clean up. Goodies are payback.”

He looked to me. “Really, Amelia, Cill’s in that league so we’re chippin’ in.”

With his eyes on me, warm and friendly, I could do nothing but agree so I did this on a nod.

He tossed a five dollar bill on my counter, declaring, “Junior says this gig starts at seven. We’ll be here at a quarter to.”

My insides clutched in fear at this offer, but before I could get it together to politely decline, Cillian shouted in horror, “In the morning?” His face was wreathed in that horror as he finished, dread dripping from each syllable. “On a Saturday?”