Dad looks up first. “You expecting anyone?” he asks, posing the question to both of us but only looking at Mom. Ever since I lied, he’s been unable to hold eye contact with me. It’s like the break in trust is so great, so profound, that the wound will never heal, and he can’t look at me the same.

It’s ridiculous. Dramatic. And not nearly as important a concern in my life as it used to be. It’s funny how things like being able to time travel will change your priorities.

Mom shakes her head, halfway through a bite of her burrito. But no one moves. The knock repeats itself, this time harder, louder.

“Don’t everyone rush at once. I’ll get it,” I muse, standing up.

Mom mutters something under her breath; I’m sure it’s a shot across the bow. She’s been doing that ever since the argument. At least I’m smart enough to know that taking the bait will only end badly for me—probably a longer sentence of house arrest.

And, frankly, I’m going stir-crazy.

Clyde trots behind me, like the security guard that he is. The smell of whoever is at the door must be unfamiliar to him, which means it’s not Isobel. She’s already stopped by once, only to get rebuked at the door by Mom, the gatekeeper preventing entry.

But at this point, any break of my mundane routine interests me, even if it’s just some salesman at the door or someone campaigning for the mayor.

At least, that’s who I expect.

But when I open the door, that’s not who’s there.

“Hey,” Blake says.

There’s no emotion behind it; it’s like a cold stone hitting me in the side of the head.

But when Blake says it, in his deep baritone voice, it sends shivers down my spine, and I swear my heart skips a beat, even if just for a fraction of a moment. Blake McIntyre is standing here, in a pair of jogging sweats and a light-colored T-shirt. In front of my house.

“Hey. How did you…”

He arches his brow.

“Of course. Did your mom travel back in time or something?”

He holds up his phone. “Not hard to find where someone lives if you are clever enough. Can we talk?”

I want to reply with some quip, like how clever and Blake McIntyre aren’t two words that I would put together. But that feels like a shot below the belt, and considering that the last conversation we had wasn’t…great, I swallow those words down.

“Sure. Move, Clyde.”

Clyde nudges his way between my legs, sniffing the air. He stares at Blake, judging him, sizing him up, deciding whether to give him his seal of approval and whether he’s worthy of being in my presence.

Blake glances down apprehensively. “Should I be worried?”