“We love this little town,” he says. “I hope you find some of the magic that your mom and I have found here.”

He walks up the stairs. As if he knows I need a moment, he disappears into the house and leaves me standing alone.

I face the backyard and breathe in the fresh evening air. It’s crisp and clean. It’s nice.

It would be so easy to get overwhelmed, to spin out of control with the decisions I have to make. A part of me wants to sit down and just get it all sorted, no matter how hard it is. But another part of me wants to do what I do best—ignore it as long as I can.

“Who are you, anyway? Why are you here?”

“Aren’t you too young for retirement?”

My lips twist into a smile. “Palmer Clark. You can call me Palmer.”

Ignoring it is even easier when I have a distraction readily available. And distractions don’t get any better than Palmer Clark.

I take my phone out of my pocket and find her name. My text from earlier today is still unreturned. There are no missed calls either.

I consider texting her for the second time since I walked out of Fletcher’s but decide against it. There’s no sense in looking thirsty. This is a small town, after all. We’re bound to run into each other again soon.

My phone goes back in my pocket.

“I hope you find some of the magic that your mom and I have found here.”

A smile tickles my lips as I take the stairs to the kitchen.

I don’t know about magic, but I think I’ve found the perfect diversion. And that’s all I need right now.

CHAPTER FOUR

PALMER

Oof.”

I set the laundry basket down with a thud. One of Ethan’s sweatshirts tumbles off the pile and lands on the floor. I pick it up, smiling at the wild tie-dye design that he’s suddenly become enamored with.

The shirt was a few dollars at an off-price retailer in Forest Falls. He’s worn it so often that the drawstring has been pulled out of the hoodie and a little hole has formed in the right cuff. He’ll probably wear it until it disintegrates in the washing machine.

I smile.

Ethan is such a mix of me and his father. Like me, he doesn’t care about designer labels. He wears whatever he feels best in—even if that’s a hoodie so bright I pray it fades every time I toss it into the dryer. Like his father, he doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him. He says I love you in front of his friends without a care in the world.

Not that Jared ever did that. I love you doesn’t generally come out of his mouth to anyone.

I sit on the sofa and grab the remote. With the push of a button, the romantic comedy I’ve been keeping half an eye on for the last hour starts playing again. It’s not a bad flick, but it’s not great either. I mainly keep it on to prevent the house from being too quiet.