Page 63 of Single Chance

“Of course.” As if I could turn down an ugly cupcake. I walked over to that corner of the kitchen and took one.

“Tell me about the not-a-gem guy. When was that?” Chance leaned against the stove as he unwrapped his cake.

I settled against the cabinets that were at a right angle to him, swiped a finger through the peanut-butter cream frosting, and stuck it in my mouth, closing my eyes in appreciation. “I met Christian when I was still teaching. He tended bar at a place my teacher friends and I used to go for happy hour.”

“How long were you together?”

“About a year and a half.” The sweet cupcake was doing its best to counteract the unpleasantness of the topic.

“So he definitely had an opportunity to do Valentine’s Day right.”

I laughed dryly. “He had an opportunity to do a lot of things right.”

“But he was not a gem,” Chance said between bites.

“We’d been together a few months when I moved in with my grandmother. She’d started confusing her daily pills, her meals…a lot of things. She hid how much she was struggling from me, but there came a point when she couldn’t hide it anymore. My lease ended, and it was an easy decision for me. Christian didn’t like it. He thought I should move in with him.”

“And do what with your grandmother?” he asked, disbelief in his tone.

I just shook my head because that seemed rhetorical. “At that point, I was still working. I couldn’t go out as much because Gram sundowned pretty badly—evenings were her most confused and agitated time.” I said all of this without letting my mind go too deep into memories. “I invited him over instead, for dinner, a movie, whatever, thinking it was a decent compromise.”

“He didn’t agree?”

“He put up with it for a few weeks before he started complaining. By the time I quit my job, it was pretty clear weweren’t going to last. To be fair, I didn’t have much time or energy for anything besides Gram. I can’t really blame him for ending our relationship.”

“But Valentine’s Day is different. Wecanblame him for that,” Chance said lightly, then stuck the last of his cupcake into his mouth.

I appreciated that lightness so much.

“For sure we can blame him for that. So which kind of boyfriend were you? Did you nail V Day or screw it up?” I asked.

“Growing up, I usually nailed it.” He went thoughtful while he rolled up his empty cupcake paper. “Even when I was married, I always did something for Valentine’s. The last few years, I don’t think it mattered,” he said gravely. “But I still kept trying.”

There was something heavy in his tone, his words, besides sadness or grief. I tried to put my finger on what, but he avoided my gaze.

“You said she was an addict,” I said carefully, wanting to know more if he would go there. Wanting to acknowledge this part of his history if he would. If we were going to co-parent for two decades, it seemed important to know him better.

“Flowers and candy couldn’t measure up to a pill,” he said quietly. “Icouldn’t measure up to a pill.” His voice was raw.

I reached over and squeezed his arm, unable tonottouch him, to try to assuage some of his pain. “Chance…”

He shook his head, like he was trying to shake it off. “I’m okay. Just…having someone choose drugs over you… It messes with a person.”

My heart cracked for him, for the pain he still carried. Not just grief and loss—God knew those alone were horrible—but Chance had extra scars.

“I think addiction can take the choice away from people,” I said. “It was never a fair battle between you and drugs.”

“Yeah,” he said on an emotion-laden exhalation. “Sorry that came out.” He tried to smile, as if we could blow off that heavy moment, but it was just a flicker of a grin. “Being married to an addict does lifelong things to a guy’s head.”

Without giving myself a chance to waver, I closed the space between us and put my arms around him, hurting for him, wishing there was some way to help him hurt less. A few heartbeats passed before I felt his hands on my back, wrapping around me, pulling me closer.

He smelled like strength and comfort, even though I was the one trying to comfort him. I breathed him in, trying to figure out what else I could say.

Before I could settle on anything, he pulled his head up, loosened his grasp, and nudged my chin up so our eyes met. Without warning, he lowered his lips to mine and kissed me, not like a friend who appreciated comfort or a late-night chat but like a man who’d been aching to kiss me for days.

In half a second, my body reacted, an ache awakening deep in my core as his tongue plundered my mouth aggressively. I kissed him back with no hesitation, no thought, just instinct and need. I ran my fingers through his coarse hair, pressing myself into him, reveling in the feel of his erection against me, confirmation that our attraction was still two-sided and very much alive.

He slid his hands down my back, slipped them under my shirt, and caressed my bare skin as we devoured each other’s mouth.

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