the man in the other tree, currently measuring the width of the trunk at different intervals. “I’m a terrible father,” he says.
“I very much doubt that.”
His smile becomes crooked again. “I’m hiring a company to build the treehouse. Actual professionals. Go ahead, tell me I’m a copout.”
I pretend to consider, furrowing my brow. “It is definitely a strike against you,” I deadpan. “I might consider calling social services.”
He nods gravely. “You take your civic duty seriously. I can respect that.”
I laugh. “In truth, I don’t think it’s bad at all. Professionals know what they’re doing, right?”
“And I don’t,” he says, smile wide. “Not to mention this is meant to be a surprise, and my hammering away out here an hour every evening won’t exactly be… inconspicuous.”
“Sure won’t.” I glance from Ethan to the man in the neighboring tree, still hard at work examining branches and boughs. “It’ll be big?”
Ethan shrugs. “No idea. I told them to design whatever will fit and make it special.”
“I had a treehouse growing up.”
“You did?”
“Yes. It was filled with cushions and in the summer my mother hung string lights inside.”
Ethan’s eyes widen. “Damn. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Of what would be inside it?”
“No, not at all.”
And he looks so… I can’t resist. “I can help with that. If you need help, I mean. Picking out pillows and a throw rug and maybe hanging lights… if it’s meant to be a surprise. For Haven and Evie?”
Nice, Bella. Very eloquent.
But Ethan gives a grateful nod. “I’d appreciate that.”
“Of course. Just let me know when you want to look at it.”
“Is it terrible of me to suggest right now?” he asks. “My mother has Haven and Evie today, and that doesn’t happen all that often.”
I smooth a hand over my shorts. “Of course! It’s a Saturday—I wasn’t planning on working anyway.”
“And no plans with all those student friends of yours?” he teases. “I haven’t heard you throw a rager yet.”
“And you won’t,” I say. “Should I come over? I can bring my laptop and we could, I don’t know, order some stuff?”
His shoulders relax a tad. “Perfect. Yes, let’s do that.”
Fifteen minutes later we’re sitting on his giant patio, side by side on a sofa, looking at pictures of treehouses. Google has served us a smorgasbord from the quaint to the outlandish.
Ethan laughs as I scroll over images that are clearly not for us. “Bathtubs… Wall-mounted TVs… people really go all out,” he says. “Wait. What about that?”
The image is of a small treehouse with child-size wooden chairs. A throw rug on the floor. A hammock attached in the background. Lights running over the ceiling in a zigzag pattern.
“That’s perfect,” I say.
“Did yours look like that?”
“Yes,” I say, “if you imagine a crooked floor and far less space. The do-it-yourself version of this.”
He shifts closer, the heat of his thigh pressing against mine. “That sounds idyllic.”
“It was, at times.”
“At times?”
His voice is too soft and too close. It’s hard to think. “Yes. I… my younger brother was often in trouble and my father wasn’t always around. I spent most of my childhood with my head buried in my schoolbooks.”
“That sounds familiar,” he murmurs.
“The schoolbook part?”
“The entire thing,” he says. “You’re the eldest?”
“Yes. You are as well?”
“Most definitely.” Ethan smiles, and it’s the same crooked thing that he’d given me in my kitchen, the one that’s wry and amused and genuine at the same time. Maybe that’s how he meets all of life’s challenges, with a smile and boundless competence.
I wet my lips. “We should order the stuff online.”
“I can do that,” he says. “Two chairs, small table, a bunch of pillows and lights.”
“You got it. Awesome.”
“Thanks for suggesting this. Without you they would have raced up the ladder and found the place empty.”
“Oh, I doubt that. You would have figured something out.” I twist away from the heat of his skin on mine, meeting his gaze. “You’re not actually a bad father.”
He doesn’t respond to that. He looks down instead, gaze on my bare shoulder. “I’m sorry for the other day.”
“The other day?”
“For assuming you had a boyfriend. And then for assuming… well.” Ethan’s not smiling now, a furrow in his brow. “I was out of line.”
“That’s okay,” I murmur. This close, his green eyes have hazel flecks in them.
He shakes his head. “It was presumptuous, what I said.”
“I understand.”
He glances down, the thick honey-brown of his hair coming into view. It’s the first time I’ve seen him struggle to find his wording. “Even so, I would like