I frown. “You sound like a philosopher.”

She frowns back. “And you sound like you don’t respect philosophy very much.”

“All philosophical questions can be answered with one concise statement.”

Chelsea refills her glass. “Which is?”

“ ‘Who gives a fuck?’ ”

She laughs, and it’s an amazing sound.

“Do you do . . . art . . . yourself, or just study other people’s work?”

Her cheeks blush. “I sketch, actually.”

My eyes are immediately drawn to the framed pencil sketch to the right of the fireplace. It’s an incredibly realistic likeness of young Riley, holding twin babies on her lap. I noticed it when I first walked in—you can practically hear the childish, smiling voice.

“Is that one of yours?” I point.

Chelsea nods, still shy.

“You’re good.” I don’t give compliments lightly.

Later, later—she talks about her brother.

“Robbie was fifteen years older than me. I was my parents’ midlife-crisis child. My dad had a heart attack when I was about Riley’s age. My mom passed a year later when I was in high school.” She sips her wine, a mischievous shine in her eye. “I was kind of a wild child after that.”

I raise my glass. “Weren’t we all?” I drink the Merlot. “So, you lived with your brother after your parents passed away?”

She nods. “Not here though. We were in a smaller place off Cherry Tree. It was just Riley and the boys then—and me, Robbie, and Rachel.”

“You and the kids kind of grew up together, then?”

“Yeah. Rachel was like a big sister and a second mother all rolled into one. She was incredible.” And there’s a mournful note in her voice.

Then she blinks, brightens. “She was the one who really pushed me to travel. Study abroad. I spent a semester in Rome, summers in Paris . . .” Her eyes drop from mine self-consciously. “God, I sound so spoiled. Poor little rich girl, right?”

I shake my head. “No. There’s a difference between privileged and spoiled.”

And Chelsea McQuaid doesn’t have a spoiled bone in her body. She knows she’s fortunate, and she appreciates every blessing.

“I’d love to take the kids to Europe one day. To show them how big the world really is.”

I chuckle, thinking of a Liam Neeson movie. If some idiot criminal tried taking one of the McQuaid kids, it’d be an hour, tops, before he’d be begging to send them back.

We continue talking, drinking—I lose time admiring the way her skin glows in the firelight. And before I know it, it’s almost four in the goddamn morning. Chelsea sets her empty glass on the coffee table and yawns.

“I should get going,” I say, even though I don’t want to. “I’ve kept you up past your bedtime. When does the human alarm clock usually rise?”

“Ronan wakes up around six. But . . .” Her eyes trail over my face, down my chest and lower. “But this was worth losing sleep over. Thank you for the wine—the conversation. I had a really great time, Jake.”

She has no idea the kind of great time I’m capable of giving her.

But not tonight.

“Me too.” I stand up and Chelsea walks me to the foyer.

Beside the door, we stand facing each other. And there’s a pull—like a fucking magnet—dragging me closer. “Chelsea . . . ,” I whisper—with no idea what I’m about to say.

I just like the taste of her name on my lips.

My heart hammers . . . and I lean forward . . . she raises her face and closes her eyes and—

“Aunt Chelsea!”

The blond pixie’s voice washes over us from upstairs, like a cold shower.

Goddamn it.

“I had a bad dream! Will you lay down with me?”

Chelsea steps back with a resigned groan, and I feel her pain. Literally.

“I’ll be right up, Rosaleen.” She shrugs at me apologetically. “Duty calls.”

I rub my lips together, making a frustrated smacking sound. “Yeah.”

She puts her hand on my chest; it’s warm and electrifying. “Thank you again. I really owe you now. Multiples.”

And I just can’t resist. “That’s my line.”

Chelsea giggles. “Good night, Jake.”

“Bye.”

I walk out the door and head home.

9

On Sunday, during breakfast at Sofia and Stanton’s place, there’s an expected visitor. “Hey, Sunshine,” I greet her, walking into the dining room.

“Hey, Jake!” Presley Shaw wraps her arms around my waist.

Presley’s almost thirteen now, and in the year or so since I last saw her—when Brent and I visited Mississippi for her mother’s wedding—she’s lost some of the cute baby roundness in her face, moving one step closer to a full-fledged golden-haired southern beauty.

Her teen years will be fun. Stanton’s gonna lose his fucking mind—and probably his hair.

We sit down to eat and he asks, “Remember that band manager I represented last year? The DWI.”

There are nods all around.

“Turns out he works with One Direction now, and they’re in town. He sent me four front-row seats to the concert tomorrow. Sofia and I were gonna take Presley.”

“Who’s One Direction?” I inquire, but don’t actually care.

Presley’s eyes bug out. “Who’s One Direction? What, y’all live under a rock?” She holds up the magazine she’s been flipping through and flashes me a picture of four punks in skinny jeans. “This is One Direction. I’m so excited!” she squeals. “The concert is gonna be so on point.”