My mouth drops.
And the mouth that belongs to the man who broke my heart also drops.
Because he’s basically staring at a mini-me. His mini-me.
Milo’s mouth drops open too, and he freezes. He was sheepish and guilty and worried about the TV, which is seriously the tenth one he’s managed to break in the past three years—how is that even possible?—but now he’s looking at a bigger version of himself. One with gray eyes and dark sandy hair.
Both sets of steel-gray eyes dart to my face, and also one set of warm brown ones since Charlotte is noticing the same thing as them.
“Lu?” He breaks my name down like he has a right to it, but it’s no endearment. It’s a question.
Okay, so I never told Toren Cromwell, the ex-love of my life and the eighth wonder of the world with chiseled six-pack sweaty abs worth fantasizing over, that he’s a dad.
Shit, shit, shit, biscuits with a side of shit biscuits, I have a feeling my banana heart is about to get peeled wide open.
CHAPTER 2
Toren
What. The. Fuck?
Walking into this shop to pick up something for my granny, as she specified over the phone yesterday, was strange enough. She said it was a matter of life and death and critical importance for me to collect whatever she had sent here to be cleaned. Granny is often quite dramatic. Okay, she’s always dramatic.
Now, I know. I know why she did it. I have no doubt that Granny somehow knew Luna owned this place. Granny was doing her usual poking into other business that’s not her own, and now, I might have received a bit more than I bargained for. But, no, no, that happened more than four years ago, whereas I broke up with Luna nearly five years ago.
Surely the timing isn’t right. The kid could be three, so let’s not get hasty here. Although, okay, he could also be four. But maybe she met someone right after me. There are other people in the world with eyes so pale blue that they look gray and who look like me. I’m sure I could find at least two or three kids out of every ten who bear some resemblance to me.
But this is a mirror image, not just some resemblance.
“Holy fucktwiddle,” I curse under my breath.
Luna has the softest brown eyes surrounded by the thickest fringe of dark lashes. I remember how she hated haircuts, and it’s obvious she’s kept it up because her hair now hangs straight and silky down her back, nearly to her bottom, which I’m not going to look at or describe. And no, I certainly don’t remember how it felt. Or how any part of her felt. I’m not going there because going there is wildly inappropriate.
Those soft brown eyes of hers narrow at me until her dark, thick lashes are nearly touching her cheeks. Her skin is as creamy and flawless as it ever was, her cheekbones just as sharp and high. Her lips are also just as full and pink. I suppose I could say Luna Grayson is still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
Rewind five years. No, rewind a little bit further, back to when I actually thought a person could believe in love and make it work. I thought that despite the example my father set for us—running off on my mom, going to Europe to live however he wanted with whoever he wanted, and leaving us kids and a trail of broken hearts in his wake—people could make things work. I thought relationships could work. I don’t know if I ever ascribed to the concept of a single person for everybody out there, but if I wanted to make it with anyone, I would have chosen Luna. But then things happened. Life happened. And instead of choosing her, I chose…well, I suppose I chose the opposite.
“Hey,” Luna says sharply, finding her voice at last. “Language. There are kids here.” She turns back to the lady who is obviously looking after her kid, who may very well be my kid.
What? Is this seriously happening? I feel like I walked into this building and somehow ended up in another dimension, and I’m still not even sure how it happened.
“Charlotte, can you please take Milo upstairs? I have some business to attend to down here. Uh, just for a few more minutes. As soon as I’m done, I’ll come up and see the TV.”
“I’m really sorry. Seriously. I never meant for the coffee table to—”
“It’s fine.” Luna gives the young babysitter—she’s probably still in high school and would be there if it wasn’t summer—an understanding smile. Luna was always capable of the most understanding smile. “Really. I’m not mad. I just need a few minutes here.”
“Oh.” Charlotte looks at me. She bites her lip, and her hand hovers protectively over Milo’s shoulder. “Okay, sure.”