Page 23 of The Perfect Mistake

“Yes. Is that okay? I know you’re going, and someone needs to watch the kids.”

“I’ve already spoken to Katja. She’ll spend the night.” It’s not part of her regular duties, but the kids have known her from the time they were both born, and she’s amazing with them. I pay her triple on nights when she becomes my emergency babysitter.

If Katja wasn’t already an integral part of our household when Victoria died, I don’t know if we would have survived those early years. All three of us.

“Oh. Thank you,” Isabel says warmly. “I’d love to go.”

“Of course. Connie wants you there.”

She makes a humming sound and silence falls between us once again. I lean back against the cushions and watch the screen. Two characters are talking rapidly, in too-long sentences with too-big words. I can’t remember the last time I sat here and watched a show that wasn’t animated, or had Sam or Willa by my side.

I should get up and leave.

But I don’t. She doesn’t either.

“Willa had a piano lesson today,” Isabel says. “It went…”

That makes my lips twitch. “She’s not very fond of her lessons.”

“No, she really isn’t.”

“She’s sticking with them, though,” I say.

“Mm-hmm. I’ve tried to entice her with ballet, but she doesn’t seem to believe I’m a real deal.” Isabel laughs softly. “I’ll have to show her some recordings.”

I roll my stiff neck. “You should. Watching you dance a few weeks ago was… You’re talented.” That’s a wild understatement, and the compliment felt off rolling off my tongue.

What the hell am I doing here? With my half-finished whiskey and the small talk that doesn’t feel small at all. It feels comfortable, and with each minute in her company, the disquiet I felt coming home melts away. It’s replaced with a different kind of energy.

“Thank you,” she says. “What’s your hidden talent, then?”

She’s smiling at me. It’s a curious, slightly teasing smile. I focus on her eyes and not the shape of her legs in those short shorts. For a brief second, I want my answer to be something else. Something far dirtier than the man I’ve become. The father. The widower. Something that will shock those beautiful eyes into widening.

Why don’t you let me show you?

Her smile falters and then dies on her lips with my prolonged silence. I’m staring. I know it, and I know the effect it can have. I’ve utilized it in plenty of corporate negotiations before.

“None of mine are hidden,” I finally say. I knock back the rest of my drink and rise off the couch. The reprieve has been nice.

Too nice.

“You’ve been here for almost two weeks now,” I say. “Anything you’d like to change?”

She sits up straighter on the couch. “No, things have been working out, I think. But if I ever need a night out—”

“Just ask,” I say. “If I’m home in the evenings, your time is yours.”

She nods. A black tendril of hair slips out from behind the hook of her ear. “Okay. Yeah. I think that’s it. Oh! Can I organize things with the kids?”

I frown. “Organize?”

“Yeah. Like a picnic in the park, or going to a museum. If you’re working late or traveling on a weekend?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Her face lights up. “Awesome. I have some ideas.”

I want to ask her what they are. I want to stay out here and listen to her detailing her plans. I want to ask her about her hip. The pain on her face from three weeks ago is etched into my memory. The tears glistening in her eyes, and how I could ensure they never spill again.

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