“Tomatoes?” he asks, holding up the single one from the counter.

“Right. I’ll go get some.”

“Great. You’re the best. Have I ever told you how lucky I am to have you?”

“Never enough,” I say.

I grab my harvesting apron and head out to the garden, where I spend a few minutes selecting the ripest tomatoes and peppers I can find. The plants have exploded with new fruit, but this late in the season it’s a toss-up if they’ll ripen on the vine before the frost comes.

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway turns me toward the carriage house. From this angle, I can’t see the front door, but a car door slams and footsteps crunch along the walk. Christian is home. I’ve been waiting for two days for the chance to talk to him.

When he opens the door, his expression makes it clear I am not who he was expecting. He looks tired, hair rumpled, lines in the corners of his eyes. He wears a pair of sweatpants. No shirt. Bare feet. “Hey.”

“Can I come in?”

I’m expecting a flirtatious grin or an innuendo, but he yawns and shrugs. “Sure. Fine. Whatever.”

I inspect the space, noting the changes. Several black contractor bags sit by the front door. No new flooring has yet replaced the rust-colored shag carpet still rolled up in long tubes, but the bare concrete looks swept clean, at least. The walls are all painted pale blue, white trim.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“I’d like it much better without you in it.”

“Ouch.” He puts a hand over his heart, but his expression is sour. “That hurts.”

“I hear you’ve been spending a lot of time with my son.” In the kitchen, I open drawers and cupboards. He’s stocked the fridge with beer and vodka but little else. A total bachelor pad.

“Help yourself,” he says sarcastically.

I turn. “Eli says he’s been helping you fix this place up. And that you’ve been giving him life advice.”

“He’s a great kid. A little weird, but we’ve been working on that.”

Knowing something about your kid is different from hearing someone else say it out loud. “You’re an asshole. You know that?”

“I believe someone might have told me that before, once or twice. Oh, yeah.” He snaps his fingers. “It was you. Look, the kid comes by after school, he’s clearly in need of a strong male influence. What am I going to do, tell him to get lost? That really would make me an asshole.”

I think about Christian’s advice to Eli, about facing what scares you. I hate that it makes sense. I hate that he’s given my kid something I haven’t been able to.

But I don’t hate him.

Christian’s gaze holds mine, that damned smile tipping up his lips in the corner as though he can read my mind. “You think really I’m going to do something to mess up your kid?”

“Don’t you dare try.”