Page 55 of Fifty-Fifty

“That’s good, Mac. Want to play the dinosaur game on my phone for a minute? I need to talk to your mama.” I smile when I hear Noah ask her opinion on somethin’. Most people don’t give Mac enough credit. They assume she ain’t payin’ attention or that she can’t understand ya just because she’s two. But that girl is as sharp as a tack, and I’m happy to see that he’s seen the same gift in her that I have.

“Please!” she squeals excitedly and reaches for his phone.

He chuckles at her enthusiasm, causin’ a shiver to race up my spine at the sound.

I shift back behind the door frame when I hear him comin’ up the stairs.

My breath catches in my lungs as I debate hidin’ in my closet like a little kid in hopes that he won’t find me.

Unfortunately, I ain’t given enough time to carry out my juvenile plan. Noah appears in the doorway before tuckin’ his hands in his front pockets and leanin’ his shoulder against the doorjamb.

“Hey,” he states sheepishly.

“Hi.” I don’t know what to say.

Why is he here?

“Are you wondering why I’m here?”

My lips tilt up on one side for a split second before slidin’ back down.

“Yeah. I kinda am.”

He sighs before pushin’ off the frame and saunterin’ over to me. My eyes slide down his muscular frame before I can stop myself.

He smiles in amusement at my perusal before rememberin’ what he came to say. “I had a little chat with Harold.”

I inhale, sharply, but don’t say a word.

“Wanna know what we talked about?”

Memories of my conversation with him earlier come to the surface when he held me as I cried over the loss of my inn. My home. And him. “I think I might have an idea.”

“Well, care to throw me a bone and let me elaborate?” he asks while takin’ a small step closer.

I nod, feelin’ like he’s cast some kind of spell on me with the way his heated gaze holds me in place.

“We talked about all the pros and cons of me leaving. He even made me write a list.” Noah continues, quirkin’ his brow.

A breath of laughter escapes me as I consider Harold handin’ him a pad of paper and bossin’ him around.

“And how’d it go?” My foot slides back a few inches, counterin’ his step with one of my own.

“The list making?” he asks.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah. That.”

“It went about as well as you can imagine.” He smirks at the memory before slippin’ his hand into the front pocket of his leather jacket and retrievin’ a piece of paper. He lifts it toward me, patiently waitin’ for me to take a step closer and accept it.

Hesitantly, I do.

My eyes are waterin’ before I’ve finished the first sentence, and I struggle to make sense of the words as they blur together.

“Did,” I sniff, “did you write this?”

“Only the first parts,” he admits.

“And I assume Harold wrote the second parts?”

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