Excited again, she picked up a wet washcloth lying on top of a step stool and wiped her hands. “Good idea. I’ll call her right now.”

“Perfect.”

She looked around the lobby. “I can’t wait for the new furniture to arrive.”

“When’s it coming again?”

“Friday. Do you think the walls will be dry by then?”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Yeah. They’ll be dry by tonight.”

Her face lit up. “Yay! I’m so excited for your brand new look. It should all be in place by next weekend. Oh, that reminds me. I have my interview up in Traverse City with Frannie MacAllister on Saturday. Do you think my car will be ready?”

“It should be. I talked to the guy sending the parts yesterday,” I said, working the roller in the tray. “They should be here Wednesday.”

“Oh. You didn’t tell me that.” There was zero enthusiasm in her tone. “That’s . . . that’s good. Wednesday is good.” She paused. “So, should I call the motel?”

“The motel?” I started rolling the paint onto the wall.

“Yes. Once my car is ready, I can go stay at the motel. Your mom was very kind to offer a room, but I really don’t want to put her out. And I’ve probably crowded you long enough.”

She wasn’t crowding me. And I didn’t want her to move to the fucking motel. But what reason did I have for asking her to stay? So I could keep banging her every night? That didn’t seem right. And besides, I was still kind of bothered by what Cole had said. Maybe if she moved to the motel, that would show people like him that we weren’t serious. That I didn’t need or want a girlfriend.

Because I didn’t. I probably wouldn’t even miss her. And if I did, that was a dangerous sign that I was letting her get too close.

“Yeah,” I said, without even turning around. “Maybe that’s for the best.”

She left without saying another word, and it took every ounce of willpower I had not to go after her.

Later that afternoon, after the second coat of paint was on and the mess in the lobby cleaned up, I stored the painting supplies and headed back to my apartment. The aroma that greeted me as I ascended the stairs nearly made my eyes roll back in my head.

“What’s that smell?” I asked when I reached the landing and spotted her pulling a tray from the oven. She’d showered and changed into a matching skirt and top. My mouth watered, but it wasn’t only because of the scent.

“Dinner rolls. Pesto twists. I told your mom I’d bring them.” She set the tray on the stovetop and turned off the oven. “She’s expecting us at six.”

“We’re going to my mom’s for dinner?”

“Yes.” She pulled off the oven mitts and set them aside.

“I thought she was sick.”

“Apparently she’s feeling better.”

I grimaced. “I thought we could just stop over there this afternoon and look for the pictures. Get in and out fast.”

“She said she definitely has some, and she offered to go through her albums this afternoon and find all the best ones for me. Then she invited us for dinner, and I couldn’t say no.” She started washing a mixing bowl at the sink.

“You’re too nice.” I couldn’t resist pressing up behind her and wrapping my arms around her waist—I liked how her top was a little bit cropped and showed her belly. I kissed the side of her neck. “And you smell delicious too.”

“Thank you. Oh, by the way, I did some laundry. I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course.”

“I threw your sheets in as well.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” I pressed my face into her hair and inhaled. Maybe I would miss her.

“I didn’t mind. I also called the motel.”

“Oh.” I released her and stepped back. “What did they say?”

“I have a room booked starting Wednesday night.”

“You sure you’ll be able to afford it?” I asked, looking for a reason she should stay here . . . one that wasn’t related to my feelings.

“Yes. They gave me a good deal since I’ll be there for over two weeks.” She set the bowl on a towel to dry and finally turned to face me with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “So as long as my car is ready by Wednesday, your apartment will be your own again.”

Tell her that’s not what you want, said a voice in my head. Tell her you changed your mind, and you don’t want her to go.

But all I did was nod. “Okay. Guess I’ll go clean up.”

She faced the sink again.

Dinner at my mother’s was actually more tolerable than I’d anticipated, mostly because Blair did such a good job of keeping the conversation centered on old family stories, especially about my dad. And she was an expert at veering back on track whenever my mother did her best to stray toward topics like how well we were getting along, how many children Blair might want in the future, and how the Lord worked in mysterious ways to unite two lonely souls in need.

Even my sister rolled her eyes at that. “Mom, jeez. Give them a break. The Lord has better things to do than find Griff a girlfriend.”

“Don’t sass me, Cheyenne. Your sad and lonely soul is next. The Lord and I are going to have a good long conversation about it.”

“On second thought, have at them,” Cheyenne said, getting up from her chair at the table. “Sorry, guys. Better you than me.”

After dinner, we moved to the den and looked at all the photos my mother had pulled from old family albums. Blair sat in the middle of the couch with my mom on one side of her and me on the other, the stack of pictures in her lap.

“Oh, I love this one,” Blair said, picking up a black and white snapshot with a thick white border around it. “Is that your dad and your grandpa in front of the shop?”

“Let me see.” I leaned closer, the scent of her hair filling my head, and looked at the photo of a young version of my grandfather holding his toddler son’s hand in front of the bay doors. “Yes. That looks like maybe right when it opened? Dad was only a couple years old, right Mom?”

My mother nodded. “He looks exactly like you at that age, Griffin. Look at those ears.”

Blair laughed. “So sweet.”

We went through the entire pile, and Blair asked questions about every photo, sometimes making notes in her phone. She asked if she could take some with her, and my mother said of course, as long as she got them back eventually.

“I’ll take perfect care of them, I promise. I’m just going to have some large prints made.” Blair put her hand on my mother’s arm. “Thank you for trusting me with your family history. It means a lot.”

“You’re very welcome, darling. That history is still being written, you know. It would be nice to add another generation of Dempseys to the photo albums.” She sighed wistfully.

I stood up. “Time to go. Thanks for dinner, Mom.”

“Everything was delicious,” said Blair, rising to her feet. “I’d love to get your recipe for those soft white sugar cookies.”

“Of course, dear. That was my grandmother’s recipe, and I’d be happy to share. Thank you for bringing the rolls. You’re very talented.”