Page 15 of Mistaken Intention

“She’s hungry.” I’m not sure how Lexi knows that, but I guess experience counts for a lot.

“Do you need me to do anything?”

“No, it’s fine. I brought some pre-made formula, just for tonight and tomorrow. It’s easier than mixing it up.”

“I see.”

She looks over at me as she wrestles with one of the bags, and I step closer, helping her open it.

“I gave up trying to breastfeed. It wasn’t for me.” I nod my head as she finds the carton of formula and hands it over, along with a bottle. “Can you measure out five ounces for me?”

“Sure.” I go over to the kitchen area and stand at the end of the breakfast bar, doing as instructed, holding up the bottle to check the measurement. “Where do I put the rest of the formula?”

“In the refrigerator.”

“Okay.”

Once it’s safely tucked away, I return with the bottle and hand it to Lexi, who’s now relaxing in the corner of my pale gray couch. I sit down, watching as she feeds her daughter, who’scertainly hungry, and takes to her bottle like she’s been starved for a week, gazing up into her mommy’s eyes.

I’m fascinated by the bond, but I’m also still intrigued by Lexi’s plans, and rather than sitting in silence, I decide to ask her outright why she’s coming back to Boston after she’s been to Newport. Maybe it’s because we’re sitting so close together, or because I’m studying her while she feeds Maisie, but I can’t fail to notice the blush creeping over her face when she looks up at me.

“I—I’ve met someone,” she says.

I don’t know what I expected, but this wasn’t it, and I struggle to hide my surprise.

“You have?”

“Yeah.” She smiles, her eyes lighting up. “He’s perfect, Josie. He’s everything I ever wanted, and never thought I’d have… not now.” She glances down at Maisie and her blush deepens. “Don’t get me wrong, I love every hair on her head, but I’ll admit, there was a time when I thought I’d never be with a man again.”

That’s a feeling I know only too well, and I nod my head. “Does he live in Boston?” To start with, that question makes sense, but as I finish saying it, I realize how silly I’m being. If he lived here, she’d probably be staying with him tonight, and not me.

She shakes her head, proving me right. “He’s not even American. He’s Spanish.”

“But he lives here, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s his name?” I ask.

“Manuel.”

She’s being a little cagey, and I want to know why.

“What does he do?”

“He’s a model. I first met him a couple of years ago when we worked together on a photo shoot in Tahiti, and our paths have crossed a few times since.”

“Professionally?”

“Oh, yeah. There was nothing between us… until now.”

“So what changed?”

She shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know, really. He’d been working in Europe for a while and we bumped into each other at a party and got talking and…”

“One thing led to another?”

She smiles. “You could say that.”

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