a big feel.
And that made her think that finally, a year after finding out about the lies and deceptions, that someday she might be whole—
No, that someday she might be more.
Yeah, more. More than just a woman with a man. But a person, fully-formed with ideas and thoughts and not a wilting flower who shrank herself down, just to fit.
And . . . she liked that. A lot.
Another promise to herself, to her daughter. Keep growing. Keep strengthening.
“Cutting board and knife?”
She blinked. “What?”
“Do you have a cutting board and knife?”
“Why?” she asked, brows drawing down.
“To cut”—his honey eyes danced with amusement—“the apples.”
“Why?” she repeated, totally flummoxed. Was he seriously offering to help her cook? Or cut, rather?
He tilted his head to the side. “Does your fancy peanut butter milk and apples recipe have a special way of slicing the apples?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“So”—his mouth twitched—“I’ll cut them.”
“But—”
“Cutting board?”
She took a step toward the cabinet that held her cutting boards. “Here, I’ll—”
“No, Blue Eyes,” he said, putting his hand on her arm. “Just point. I can get it myself.”
She bit the inside of her lip, a thrill skirting through her. More. Yes, maybe she could be more than she’d ever hoped.
But she had to actually speak and talk like a live human being.
Or, well . . . point anyway.
She indicated the cabinet.
He grinned, opened the door, rustled around inside, and extracted a wooden cutting board. Which gave this man, this neighbor she barely knew, extra points. Because he knew without her telling him that plastic was for meat and wood was for fruits and vegetables.
“Knife?” he asked.
She pointed again.
Another grin as he opened the drawer, grabbed out a chef’s knife, then reached for the towel she kept by the sink, folded and tucked it underneath the cutting board— ensuring the wood wouldn’t slip on the counter as he was using it. Then he picked up the three apples and carried them to the sink. “I’m guessing you’re used to supervising in the kitchen.”
“Um, yes?”
He turned on the water.
“I promise I can cut three apples.”
Now, her cheeks went hot, but she just nodded, turned to the cabinet in front of her and snagged three glasses—two glass, one plastic, because as Finn had noted, Rylie would definitely want in on this.
Milk into the blender. Three heaping spoons full of peanut butter.
Flick the switch.
And thick, creamy, frothy peanut butter milk was born.
Also, yes, she was well-aware of what kind of images thick, creamy, and frothy conjured up, but she also didn’t care because her peanut butter milk was that delicious. Add in dipping slices of fresh and juicy—ha!—apples, and it was the best snack on the planet.
Ry had appeared in the kitchen by the time the blender switched off, her eyes wide as she bounced on her toes.
“Peanut butter milk?” she exclaimed, still bouncing as her gaze flicked to Finn. “And apples?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she said, pouring the milk into the three glasses.
“My favorite!” Ry danced her way over.
Shan pressed a kiss to her head. “Want to carefully take these out to the table on the deck?”
“Okay!” She grabbed two of the glasses and made her way carefully outside.
Smiling at the dainty steps her normally bull-in-a-china-shop daughter took as she was careful to not spill a single drop of nirvana, Shan watched her head out the front door, then turned and grabbed three small plates, setting them in front of Finn.
Who was deliberately cutting the apples into the most perfect slices she had ever seen.
Evenly cut. Not a trace of a core in sight. Skin removed and piled neatly in one corner of the board.
Italian chef.
Tall, dark, and with killer knife skills . . . yeah, that would still do well for her fantasies. Though, really, Shannon couldn’t argue that she could, just as easily, picture this man as a firefighter or a politician or that secret agent, who’d shown up looking uncertain on her porch with sand toys a few days ago, with fruit today and had commented on the placement of her furniture then had made himself comfortable in her kitchen before efficiently slicing fruit.
Different faces.
Yet, this man wasn’t lost in them. His essence never seemed to fully leave.
So, a chameleon, but not deceiver—not like Brian.
He was just . . . a crystal turning over in her palm, the sun hitting different angles, reflecting the light in constantly changing ways—rainbows and white light, shadows and the sun seeping through into her skin—but still, intrinsically, that crystal in her palm. This man in front