Page 28 of When Love Comes Home

She walks over and puts her cup down on the table before plopping down on the swing beside me with a sigh.

"That was Sheri," she says.

"What's wrong?" I ask, catching the shift in her mood, the slight hesitation.

"Get this," she says, avoiding my gaze. "She wanted to know if you're available."

"Available? For what?" I ask.

"To date," she says, but there's an edge in her tone—accusatory, familiar. I know that tone far too well.

"Me?" I blurt out, unable to hide my surprise.

"Yeah, you," she says, her voice rising.

"Isn't she engaged?" I ask, amusement creeping into my voice.

"That's exactly what she said," Katie mutters. "'It's too bad I'm engaged,' she told me, 'but I have an older sister who's single and ready to mingle.' Her words, not mine."

The look of disapproval she shoots my way is another thing I recognize all too well.

"What?" I say. "What did I do?"

"Her name is Melissa," she continues. "She's a teacher. Loves kids—of course she does. She just hasn’t been able to find the right guy." She recites every word through gritted teeth, her eyes blazing with agitation.

"Why didn’t she call me?" I ask, fully aware that Sheri has my number—and regretting the words the moment they leave my lips.

"She had the audacity to ask if I’m interested in you," she says, clearly upset.

I can sense the tension emanating from her in waves, but I still have to fight the urge to smile.

"What did you tell her?" I ask, bracing myself for the worst—yet deep down, hoping for the best.

"She turns to me and shoots me a glare sharp enough to silence me on the spot. She's jealous. I can't believe it—she's actually jealous.

"I told her your love life is none of my business," she says.

"Oh, good," I reply, enjoying the way she shifts uneasily. "Did she leave Melissa's number?"

Her eyes widen with disbelief. "What happened to you being emotionally unavailable?" she retorts.

"I'm thirty-two years old, single, and ready to mingle," I say, watching as she opens her mouth, ready to cut me down with words—but nothing comes out. When I realize she's completely speechless, I start laughing—a deep, full laugh that rumbles through me.

She gives me a playful shove with her shoulder and bursts out laughing too. "You're horrible!" she manages between fits of laughter.

We lean back on the swing, letting it sway gently. I take a sip of my hot chocolate, allowing the comfortable silence to settle between us.

It doesn’t take long before she glances at me. “Are you going to call her?” she asks, her tone suddenly serious.

"No," I say, shaking my head.

When I don’t elaborate, she looks at me again. "Why not?" she asks.

I hesitate, debating whether to give her a plausible excuse that she might believe or to be honest—open Pandora’s box and have her questioning everything.

"I'll give you the easy, uncomplicated reason," I say.

"Okay," she says. "I'm listening."

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