Page 43 of With All My Heart, Joy

“Night, Paise.”

“Night, Dad.”

Joy stood by the front door when he came out.

“Still no answer?”

She shook her head, her eyebrows low with worry. What would it feel like to brush his hand along her brow, gently massaging her stress away?

He nearly choked on the forbidden thought. “Here.” He dug into his pocket for his wallet and extended two twenties. “It’s not much, but—”

She took two big steps back, holding her hands like a shield. “I’m not accepting money, Isaac.”

He loved when she said his name. He had zero interest in being Mr. Miller to her ever again.

“But you sacrificed hours of your time tonight. I’m sure that put you behind on content creation.”

Guilt seized her face.

“Which you shouldn’t beat yourself up about. You’re allowed to take a break. In fact, I’m pretty sure this guy with a doctorate in psychology told you specifically to take a break. That’s why youshouldaccept payment for services rendered.”

She folded her arms across her chest, throwing her head with a haughty toss. He liked her hair. It was straight, with an edgy cut that made her look fun and trendy. And young. So young. “No way.”

“Joy.” He didn’t mean to growl her name, but she was being ridiculous. Her eyebrows arched at his tone. How they’d gone from counselor and client to bickering and bantering in his entryway in one day, he had no clue.

“Somebody needs his beauty rest,” she said. “Good night.”

He couldn’t let her leave. Not yet. Without thought, he lunged after her, his hand grazing her arm as she moved toward the door. She pivoted, her face slack with surprise.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He stood still, his heart slamming against his ribcage. “I just… Do you want to talk about the whole Zak and JJ thing? Or…or anything?” Yes, he was begging. Like a homeless peddler at an intersection.

She slipped into a puffy pink coat, wrapping a knitted scarf around her neck. Her feet slid into flat boots with a fuzzy exterior, then she faced him. He’d never seen a more conflicted expression on a person’s face. “What is there to say?”

He had a lot to say, but he didn’t know if any of it was welcome. Should he try? Or should he hold back?

“Joy, I—I like you.” There was no holding back, not when she stood there looking so sweet and beautiful and innocent. So very innocent. There was no way on God’s green earth he deserved Joy Halverson.

“I know,” she whispered, her cheeks unusually rosy. She twined her hands together in an anxious gesture, not quite meeting his eyes. Regret at his blunt declaration smote him. He was making her uncomfortable.

“I shouldn’t be trying to force this discussion. Please forgive me. Thank you for all you did tonight. It meant the world to Paisley. And me.”

She edged toward the door, her feet dragging as if she didn’t actually want to leave. Then she stopped, her back to him.

“Isaac?” Her voice was hushed. “How old are you?”

Why did age have to matter so much? “Thirty-eight.”

She swayed on her feet like a tree in a summer windstorm. Isaac had never bemoaned the aging process, accepting it as part of life. But at this moment the cruel longing to be ten years younger gripped him with tenacity.

But no. Reverse ten years, and there would be no Paisley.

“Did you think I was younger?”

She faced him now, and her nod was almost imperceptible. Her coat rose and fell with the swell of her chest as she stood by the doorway. “I’m twenty-two.”

“I know.” He’d always known.

“That’s a—a big difference.”

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