Page 42 of Worth the Vow

“Once a ho, always a ho,” Alex mutters.

“Before I could tell Kate that I had Savannah escorted off the property, Kate asked if I took Savannah up on her offer, and suggested that, since we’re only in a business arrangement, I can do what I want, with whomever I want.”

Alex stares at me, dumbfounded. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes, until their food is delivered. I order a beer from the bar, content to just sit with my brother.

“Do you like Kate?” he asks suddenly.

“Of course,” I answer.

“No, I mean like her.”

“I’m fairly certain I answered you the first time,” I say, frowning.

“Dom,” he chuckles, “Sometimes you really are clueless about relationships. I meant are you interested in Kate. As more than an almost-cousin or nanny, or even your marriage of convenience wife. Do you want to have an actual relationship with her?”

I go to answer no, but the word won’t come out. It’s as if my brain and heart are arguing. Surely I don’t want anything with Katharine. We’re as different as night and day. She’s loud, opinionated, and way too happy. But she also brought joy to my house, a joy that I didn’t realize was missing. And when she’s near me, I relax a bit more. But even I’m surprised when I find myself answering, “Yes, I believe I do.”

My answer shocks both of us, as Alex inhales some of his water and begins choking. “Holy shit. I didn’t think you’d answer me honestly. Really?”

I frown again, not sure how to respond. “She aggravates me to no end. I find strands of her hair all over the house, even in my bathroom. And she clearly doesn’t understand how the duct system works in housing, because she sings in the basement, horribly off-key, mind you, and then acts like nothing happened. Her water glasses are everywhere. Everywhere! Never in the sink, though. Definitely not in the dishwasher. And don’t even get me started on how badly she fucked up the surface on the Blackstone.”

“You and that fucking grill,” Alex groans.

“Do you know how long it takes to clean and re-season a massive cast iron griddle? She dumped soap on it, dude. Soap.”

“I was trying to help you, asshole.” Swiveling, I find a furious Kate behind me, steam practically coming out of her ears. “And just so we’re clear, I don’t know how my hair ends up in your bathroom, because I never step foot in your space. I’ll be sure to stop the singing, though. You’re welcome for the free horribly off-key performance. Looks like I’m off shift for the night, Mr. Santo. Take your own kids home.”

Whirling around, she stomps out of the restaurant. It’s not lost on me that one single piece of her hair, currently a light purple, floats down to land on my leg.

“Way to go, Dad. She said we could get ice cream,” Aspen pouts. My kids have piled into the booth with their cousins, and all five look at me with varying stages of disappointment.

“Yeah, way to go, Dad. I’m guessing she didn’t hear the first part of that conversation,” Alex says quietly. “Guess we know where she stands on liking you.”

“I could have told you that,” I murmur. “It doesn’t matter how I feel. Katharine would never go for someone like me.”

“Someone like you?” Alex asks as my beer is finally deposited in front of me, and I take a healthy swig.

“You know. Closed off. Not creative, or romantic. I’m pragmatic to a fault, I have a remarkable inability to delegate, and I rarely trust anyone with my children. Kate and I have butted heads since we met.”

Alex hums noncommittally. “I would have said you’ve butted heads because you both recognized an attraction that neither of you expected.”

I shrug. “Doesn’t matter now.”

“Don’t count yourself out. She needs time to cool off. And that gives you time to draft an apology.”

“Draft?” I say, perking up. “I can do that? Would it be better handwritten, or on letterhead? Can I email it to her? Text would be bad, right? God, I hate texting.”

“We all know that,” Alex responds dryly.

“Then why do you keep adding me to group texts?”

“Because it pisses you off. And when I said draft, I meant you can decide what you want to say to her. In person. Verbally.”

“Fuck,” I mutter. I don’t do well with in-person apologies. “Can I send a balloon bouquet? Are candy grams still a thing?”

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