Page 85 of From Maybe to Baby

"And hockey jerseys," insists Lukas.

"Pretty sure it’s black tie, buddy."

"But hockey princes need jerseys, Daddy. Lexa said so."

Right. I did say that. Among other things, like agreeing to help decorate for a team party that I shouldn’t even be here for.

Their plans barrel through the holidays and beyond, assuming I'm part of the scenery. Paris, with its fashion weeks and adult-only events, feels like a distant, sophisticated dream compared to this sticky, syrupy reality I'm in the middle of.

"The party’s on the 15th," Lukas continues, pulling me back to an uncomfortable reality with the persistence of a tiny lobbyist. "Mrs. Martinez put you down for cookie duty because you make everything pretty."

Great. I’m now officially the Martha Stewart of grade school events. This house, these plans, they're pulling me into a domestic vortex that feels both suffocatingly quaint and terrifyingly endearing.

"I have to go," I blurt out, nearly knocking over my coffee in my haste to escape. "Work. Article. Very important deadline."

"Lexa?" Jace’s voice quivers, a mix of confusion and the dawning of a small, heartbreaking realization. "Are you gonna help with my princess project?"

"And hockey practice?" Lukas adds, his voice tinged with a betrayal only a child can convey.

Their faces, full of unguarded hope and expectation, are suddenly too much. I’m not this person. I can’t be.

"I just... I need to...," I stammer, backing away as my phone chimes with another reminder that Paris is waiting.

"Work emergency," I announce, grabbing onto the excuse like a lifeline.

Jonas nods, his expression unreadable.

I retreat to the safety of my makeshift office—the one they made completely welcoming, completely mine—ignoring the buzz of my phone, the pull of two very different worlds, and the growing realization that no amount of professional distance can shield me from the messy, terrifying reality of caring too much.

I've been dodgingJonas since the breakfast bombshell about Christmas plans and school parties—a future I can't guarantee. Professional distance is a hell of a lot easier to maintain from behind the barricade of my laptop, in the solitude an office, rather than facing those expectant family stares that burn my soul.

Everything in this house—which screams "home" but isn't mine—shouts at me. There's the coffee mug Jace decorated with "sparkly princesses," the calendar smothered in purple stickers—a reminder of commitments I never planned on making. And a couple family photos that I'm inexplicably part of.

"The kids are wondering why you skipped dinner," Jonas says from the doorway, his tone cautious, as if he's approaching a wild animal that might bolt. He’s not entirely wrong. "Jace thinks you’re upset with her, and Lukas is worried he did something wrong."

"Sorry, I should have explained. I was working," I lie smoothly, gesturing to my laptop which most definitely is not displaying listings for Parisian apartments. "Deadlines, you know."

"Right," he steps into the office he cleared out for me. "The same deadline that had you missing dinner three nights running?"

"I had calls," I deflect, which isn’t entirely a lie—some of those were to Paris.

"With Paris?" he probes, too perceptively.

I snap my head up, caught. "How did you?—"

"Gloria," he says, and the name drops like a lead weight.

Backed into a corner, I have to fight the urge to come out swinging. I want to ask this man how dare he have expectations of me, an outsider to his family. But I don’t because I understand his expectations. I set them, when it comes down to it. This is no one’s fault but my own. I created the mess.

And I need to get out of it.

It's a professional opportunity," I insist, my voice tight, as if I’m handling explosives.

"For a year. Minimum," he points out, not backing down.

"Yes."

"Starting in January."

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