If this was the only way to keep Sutton in her school and my savings healthy enough to buy a house, then we’d make it work. I just had to think about the pros of Weston himself. Would it be awkward? Probably. But this wasn’t exactly the first time I’d asked him for a life-changing favor.
Weston pro number one: he’s already saved you once.
The front door opened and Weston walked in, his arms full of grocery bags. He shut the door with his foot.
“Can I help?” I asked, already sliding off the stool.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got it,” he answered.
I liked that he didn’t smile, didn’t try to pretend this wasn’t weird as hell. It felt more…genuine. I kept my gaze on him as he moved toward me, setting the bags down on the counter gently.
Pro number two: he isn’t careless.
“I figured I might make us some lunch while we’re talking. Club sandwiches sound good?” He took the groceries out of the bag and laid them on the counter next to the stove. Deli meat. Tomatoes. Cheese. Lettuce. Avocado. Bread. “There’s plenty of leftover bacon that I didn’t burn.”
“You cook?” My eyebrows rose as I shifted in my seat. “I mean, that’s really nice of you. Yes, please. Sorry, I tend to say the first thing that pops into my head, and I babble when I’m nervous. Not much for a filter over here.” My lips tilted upward, and I clutched the bright pink pen.
“I actually prefer no filter. I’d rather know what someone is thinking over what they’d like me to think they’re thinking. And I’ve been cooking since I was sixteen.” He checked the cabinets one by one, familiarizing himself with the kitchen layout. I hadn’t changed things much over the years, nor had I replaced much of the Madigan-supplied kitchenware. “Though I’m not sure I’d qualify throwing TV dinners in the microwave for Crew and me really cooking. But I’ve picked up a few things since then.” He opened the small closet that served as a pantry. “Is cooking something you enjoy?”
“I’m…decent.” I glanced from the fresh ingredients on the counter to the hodgepodge of sugary, processed foods in the pantry that Sutton and I indulged in. Pretty sure we could have survived the apocalypse on brown sugar Pop-Tarts and boxed macaroni and cheese.
“I didn’t ask if you were good. I asked if you enjoyed it.” He glanced over his shoulder, a corner of his mouth lifting into a half smirk that elevated my pulse.
Weston con one: he was way too attractive.
Wait. Was that really a con? Would it honestly hurt to have a ridiculously hot guy around to stare at every now and again? Not that I spent a lot of time staring at men—it had been a year since my last foray into the dating pool—but I knew a gorgeous one when I saw him, and Weston was an off-the-charts specimen of gorgeousness. And besides, that face? The chiseled abs and chest I’d walked in on earlier? Those were definitely worth staring at.
“Callie?” Weston asked, his eyebrows raised.
Shit, he’d asked me something. Cooking. Yep, that was right. He’d asked if I enjoyed cooking. “I’m more of a ‘whatever’s convenient’ kind of girl,” I answered.
“She burns stuff. A lot. Pretty much everything, really.”
“Sutton!” My head whipped toward the little balcony that led to Sutton’s and my bedrooms. My daughter stood at the railing, grinning down at us. “What did I say?”
“To stay upstairs,” she answered, her hair tumbling around her face as she leaned over the railing slightly. “And I’m still upstairs. See?”
“Not if you fall over the railing.” My eyebrow shot up into what I hoped was the not-right-now look.
Weston chuckled, his shoulders moving slightly as he washed his hands at the kitchen sink, then dried them. His back was turned toward me, and I suppressed the inappropriate urge to ask him to turn so I could see if he was smiling. That little half smirk he’d given me hadn’t been enough to satisfy my curiosity.
“Never fallen before.” Sutton gave me a daredevil grin that had gotten her into trouble way too many times.
Weston popped a couple pieces of bread into the toaster. “Are you hungry up there?” he asked Sutton before looking back at me. No smile. Pity. “If it’s okay with your mom.”
“Mom?” The plea in her voice was unmistakable.
Weston took the cutting board out of the cabinet next to the sink and put it on the island, then turned and grabbed three faded plates from above the toaster. “I figure if she’s going to live here too, she should be in on the ground-rule conversation, right? It’s not just the two of us.”
I stopped breathing.
His eyes met mine, and I struggled to keep my jaw from falling to the floor as I forced air through my lungs. He’d put Sutton on equal ground with a single sentence.
Never, not once in her ten years, had someone given her that courtesy. The few men I’d dated had seen her as an obstacle or an anchor. To the resort, she was a liability they respected because we’d been Weston’s last official decision before he left the fold. To her school, she was the disruptive one who needed to work a little harder at raising her hand before speaking. Even to my friends, she was my daughter, someone they adored but had to plan around.
Weston pro number three: he treats Sutton like she’s her own person.
“Come on down,” I said, shooting her a wordless plea that she mind her manners. We’d always been able to read each other’s cues pretty well—I guessed that’s what happened when you had a kid at eighteen and kept her strapped to you while you worked until she hit preschool.
Sutton skipped down the steps and jumped the last three, shoving her hair out of her face as she came over to take the stool next to mine.
Weston reached across the island, offering his hand to Sutton. “I’m Weston Madigan. Nice to meet you.”
Sutton’s hand looked tiny in his. “Sutton Thorne. Nice to meet you too. Sorry for screaming earlier.”
“I would have screamed if the roles had been reversed.” The toast popped up and Weston replaced it with fresh bread, bringing the others to the cutting board in front of us.
“Really?” Sutton asked, her eyes narrowing slightly.
“Really. Ten-year-old girls are terrifying.” He said it with a straight face, which earned him a smile from Sutton. “Why don’t we start with your ground rules, first, since I’m assuming you have more of them?” He glanced up at me. “If we decide to do this, that is.”
I was already leaning that direction.
“Why would you assume I have more of them?” I wrote Ground Rules on the top of the first blank piece of paper. My pros-and-cons list was safely tucked away in the back of the notebook.
“You have more at stake.” He glanced at Sutton and started slicing tomatoes with a knife set I didn’t recognize.
He was right. I did.
“Can I help?” Sutton asked him.
“Absolutely. You’re on toast duty. Just keep ’em coming.” He looked up at me from under his brows. “If what she says about your tendency to burn stuff is true, then I’m all for you staying on that side of the island.”
I scoffed.
“It’s true,” Sutton proclaimed, racing around the island toward the toaster and sliding the last foot or so in her socks.