“I’ve moved on,” Jericho told him.
“You’re not dating. Worse, you’re not picking up women in bars and sleeping with them.”
Jericho grinned. “When have I ever done that?”
“You’re a straight guy. Isn’t it a thing?”
“I hate it when you generalize about me because I’m straight.”
Antonio grinned. “Poor you.” His humor faded. “It’s time to stop pouting and move on with your life.”
“Hey, I don’t pout.”
“Fine, call it whatever you want. Lauren was a total bitch and I honestly don’t have words to describe what a shit Gil is for doing what he did. But you’re divorced, you claim to have moved on, so let’s see a little proof.” His mouth turned down. “I worry about you.”
“Thanks. I’m okay.”
Mostly. He hadn’t seen his brother in six months, which had made the holidays awkward. His family was small—just his mom, him and his brother, with Antonio as an adopted member. Gil’s affair with Lauren had rocked their family dynamics nearly as much as his father’s death eight years ago, shattering their small world. Their mother had taken Jericho’s side—at least at first. Lately, she’d been making noises about a reconciliation. As Gil and Lauren were still a thing, he wasn’t ready to pull that particular trigger just yet.
“Dennis is a really good matchmaker,” Antonio murmured.
“Did I say no? I’m kind of sure I said no. I can get my own women.”
“Yes, but you won’t.”
“Now who’s pouting?”
The first five notes of “La Cucaracha” played outside, announcing the arrival of the food truck. Antonio’s face brightened.
“Lunchtime. You’re buying.”
“Somehow I’m always buying.”
“You’re the rich developer. I’m a struggling artist. It’s only fair.”
“You have a successful design business. And if that wasn’t enough, your husband is a partner at a fancy, high-priced law firm. You married money.”
Antonio laughed. “Wasn’t that smart of me?”
Jericho followed him out of the trailer. “You would have married him if he was broke and homeless. You love him.”
“I do and now we need to find someone for you to love. Not another redhead. That last one was a total disaster.”
“I’m not sure the failure of our marriage had anything to do with the color of her hair.”
“Maybe not, but why take the chance?”
After dinner, Aubrey helped Finley clean the kitchen. In truth the eight-year-old spent more time talking than putting things away, but Finley was fine with that—she enjoyed the company. Besides, she wanted Aubrey to know she was interested in her day, her school, her friends, that every detail mattered. The first five years of her niece’s life had been tumultuous. As long as Finley was Aubrey’s guardian, she was going to make sure the little girl felt safe and loved.
“Harry said his family is going to Disneyland this summer,” Aubrey announced in a reverent tone. “For a whole week!”
“Doesn’t Harry have a lot of brothers?”
“Four. He’s the second youngest. But Disneyland! Have you ever been?”
“I haven’t,” she admitted, trying to ignore the inevitable destination of the conversation. “Are they flying to Los Angeles or driving?”
Aubrey carried a plate from the kitchen table to the counter. “I don’t know. Is it far?”
“Over a thousand miles.”
Aubrey’s blue eyes widened. “The drive would take forever.”
“A couple of days.” Maybe more with five kids requiring bathroom breaks at different times. Not that flying would be all that much easier, although the getting-there part would go faster.
“We should go,” Aubrey told her. “We’d have the best time.”
Finley continued to load the dishwasher. “We would, but that’s a big trip.” It would also be expensive and Finley didn’t think she could swing it.
“It could be you and me and Grandma and Mommy.”
Travel with Sloane—that was so not happening.
“Did you finish your reading?” she asked, hoping to distract her niece.
“Uh-huh. And I did my math sheet. We get our new spelling list tomorrow. I wonder what the words will be.”
“I don’t know, but they’ve been getting bigger every time.”
Aubrey spun in a circle. “I saw that, too! Last week we had evidence and conclusion. Those were hard.”
“But you learned them.” Finley smiled. “I’m proud of you, baby girl.”
Aubrey rushed toward her and flung her arms around Finley’s waist. Finley wiped her wet hands on her jeans, then held on tight.
“I love you, Finley.”
“I love you, too. You’re my best girl.”
As quickly as the emotional encounter had begun, it was over, with Aubrey dancing away, singing the words to the song “Physical” because she and her grandma were all about the eighties.
Once the dishwasher was on and the counters wiped down, Aubrey raced upstairs to pick out her coloring project for the evening. Book and crayons in hand, she settled on the floor in front of the big coffee table. She and Finley discussed viewing options, finally settling on The Brady Bunch reruns for an hour before she read until bedtime. Finley debated joining her, but there was laundry to do and she should probably scrub the bathroom she and Aubrey shared—normally a Saturday chore, but she’d been working extra hours the past couple of weeks.
She’d made it halfway up the stairs when she heard her mom call her.
“Finley, I need to talk to you.”
An innocuous statement, she told herself, even as her shoulders tensed.
She followed her mother into the fourth bedroom-slash-home office at the back of the house. Bins filled with summer clothes were stacked next to boxes of Christmas decorations. Finley sat on the double bed while her mom took the desk chair.
Molly McGowan might only be a few months from her fifty-fifth birthday, but she could still pass for a woman in her midforties, although time and disappointment had blurred her once beautiful features until now she was merely attractive. Finley told herself that one of the advantages of being average was there was no great beauty to fade, which was a plus for her. She wasn’t looking for one more problem to solve.