Page 33 of Fixing Up My Love Life

There’s so much I want to say, but her laughter’s still lingering in the air, and I don’t want to ruin it. So I just hold up my empty hands.

“Tell your mom I said thanks for the cake,” she says with a thin smile. At least she’s trying.

“I’ll pass that along. She’ll be thrilled to know it made a splash.”

Hazel grins. “Go home, Jack.”

But the moment lingers.

She’s still standing there, eyes lit up from laughing, surrounded by noise and too many kids—but she looks more at home than I’ve ever felt in my entire life.

I don’t move.

Not yet.

“I miss this,” I say, quieter this time.

She tilts her head. “What, exactly?”

I pause, my voice dipping. “Being in it. Not just showing up to fix pipes or drop off cake. Feeling like I’m part of the mess.”

Her smile fades a little, not in a bad way—more like she’s absorbing my words.

“You are.” She says the words so softly, I almost miss it.

And for a second, I let myself believe her.

Hazel’s smile falters, just slightly.

She opens her mouth like she wants to say something, but then Ellen yells from the other room that she lost her “royal slipper.”

Lila groans. “It’s under the couch, drama queen.”

But now the moment’s gone.

She tucks a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “Thanks for stopping by.”

I nod, but I don’t move right away. Just let myself look at her one last second, trying to memorize the wayshe laughs, the sound of the girls, the scent of coconut, and her.

Then I finally turn to go, heart pounding like I just ran a mile uphill.

And as I walk back to the truck, Caroline beside me in silence, I realize . . .

I’ve fallen in love with her all over again.

CHAPTER 13

Hazel

The scent of grilled hot dogs and sunscreen drifts through the air as I adjust the picnic table’s red-checkered tablecloth for the third time. Lila has already arranged the cupcakes into a patriotic swirl and is currently yelling at Ellen to stop shaking the lemonade dispenser like it’s a snow globe.

“No lemonade floods today, please,” I say, grabbing the dispenser before it topples. Ellen pouts and scurries toward the porch where she left her sparkler stash. A moment later, she returns with something clutched behind her back and beelines straight for Jack.

“Jack,” she says sweetly, “can I brush the hair on your cheeky cheekies?”

He blinks. “My what now?”

She pulls out a doll brush and stands on tiptoe, gesturing to his beard. “Your cheeky cheekies. They fuzzy. I like fuzzy.”

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