The connection between the two of us steadies me. When I look at him, when I feel his touch, I don’t feel alone in the world. Because I believe that if I needed him, Cole would be there. He cares—not just about me but about Ethan.

For the very first time, maybe ever, I have more hope than fear.

“Are you tired?” Cole asks.

“Yeah.”

He runs a finger down the side of my face. “I want to have a conversation with you. Soon. But I want you to be awake and caffeinated and ready to argue everything so I can prove to you that I’m right.”

I grin. “Sounds fun.”

Instead of feeling a flush of nervousness, the deepest sense of calm settles over me. I have never known a man to be so . . . intuitive. He gets me. He knows I’m exhausted and cares enough to wait to talk.

“Ethan is going to Sandbox’s house after school tomorrow,” I say. “He’s staying the night. Maybe we could talk then?”

Cole’s face breaks out into a smile. “Great idea. I could come over after you get off work, and we could go out to dinner or something.”

“Like a date? Like to Limoncello’s?”

He laughs. “I’d take you to Paris tomorrow if you wanted to go.”

I make a face. “Not Paris. Maybe . . .” I think. “Maybe Auckland.”

“New Zealand? Random, but okay.”

“Hey, this is my dream date.” I yawn. “I wouldn’t hate Paris, though.”

He glances at my dinner. “How hungry are you?”

“I’m not as hungry as I am tired.”

That’s all it takes. He picks me up, draping my legs over one arm and supporting my back with the other. I curl against him as he carries me down the hall toward my room.

“You know there’s a thirty-dollar plate of pasta spoiling on the counter,” I say.

He laughs. “I don’t think it was quite thirty dollars.”

“Still. We should probably put it back in the fridge, and I’ll have it for lunch tomorrow.”

We enter my bedroom. I flip the light on as we pass the switch. Then he lays me gently on the bed.

“Damn it, you’re beautiful,” he says, climbing on the bed beside me. “I know you’re tired, but it’s hard to keep my hands off you.”

I grin again. “It’s hard for me to stop thinking about that pasta.”

He shakes his head. “Is the only way I’m going to get your attention if I put the pasta in the fridge?”

“Yes. Or . . .” I tug at the hem of his shirt. “If you took this off, I’d probably be amply distracted.”

He laughs, stripping his shirt over his head. He hops up on his knees and flexes his impressive abdomen.

Good heavens.

“Did it work?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know.