Page 44 of Hat Trick

“Gwen.”

I swallow. “Yes?”

“What’s the likelihood of you climbing out of your lasagna pool and meeting metonight?”

The daughter part of me—the one so desperate for a slice of affection from my mother—is determined to stay here and clean this place right up. Make her realize that although she’ll never, ever, put me first, I do my best to make her apriority.

Before tonight, I would have turned down Marshall’s proposal and made the magichappen.

Tonight, after watching Adaline send away both her butler and chef while keeping her new boy toy close, I think it’s time to putmefirst. Foronce.

Eyeing the sauce-painted walls, I toss the napkin on the table and stand. “I have Burberrypie.”

“What?”

Oops. “I mean, blueberry pie. I have blueberrypie.”

“I’m not a man who turns down pie,” he tells me, voice low, “and I’m not the type of guy who reneges on a promise. I owe you a kiss, Gwen, and I hope you’re ready tocollect.”

Oh.Oh.

I don’t have the chance to formulate a wittyrejoinder.

His laugh is husky, sexy, and it’s all too easy to picture him thumbing the belt loop of his jeans just before he strips off his shirt to show me the goods. “I’ll text you directions to my house, in case you don’t remember where I’m at.” He pauses. “Don’t forget the pie, honey. I’m feeling hungry in more ways thanone.”

15

Gwen

Three Years Earlier…

Heads swivelin my direction the moment I enter Write’s Funeral Home over in EastCambridge.

I don’t recognize a single soul, and the truth of that nearly pulls a laugh from my unsmilinglips.

Here I am for my father’s funeral and none of his friends recognize me and I sure as hell don’t recognize any of them. Maybe if I hadn’t just retouched my blond roots with more red hair dye, I’d be greeted with hugs instead of blankstares. . .

Or maybe you should just accept the fact that you and your father never had arelationship.

Tugging my cardigan tighter around my shoulders, I stop to sign the guest book. The names listed there don’t ring abell:

Greer Smith, Norwood,Massachusetts.

Viktor Choctov, Fall River,Massachusetts.

Sam Gilton, Nashua, NewHampshire.

I grip the pen in my left hand and press the ballpoint to the lined sheets of paper. In another universe, today would go differently. My mother would be here at my side, and I’d be surrounded by family as opposed to complete strangers. I’d stand up at the front of the funeral home by my father’s open casket with my uncle and cousins, and even though my heart would feel scraped raw after losing my dad, I would know, at least, that I wasn’talone.

Unfortunately, alternate realities aren’t a thing in my world and the only truth I have is that I am Mark James’s daughter. A daughter he hasn’t seen in ten years, and a daughter who has enough regrets to make even a sinner feelangelic.

Feeling the sting of tears behind my eyes, I scrawl my name beneath Mr. Gilton ofNashua.

Gwen James, Boston, Massachusetts, daughter ofMark.

As though I need further proof that I do, in fact, belong in this funeral home to pay my respects like everyoneelse.

On impulse, I write my mother’s name just belowmine.

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