“Better than Jeff Lopez in the tenth grade?”
I closed my eyes. “So much better.”
Kate just watched me with something amounting to regret. “Damn.”
I nodded. “I know.”
But before I could agree with her, the doorbell chimed through the house.
“I’LL GET IT!”
Sofia catapulted off the sofa and flew past us down the hallway.
“Nothing is more exciting to a four-year-old than answering the front door,” I told Kate. “It’s probably just Pete, the downstairs tenant. I think his rent is due tomorrow.” I pushed up from the stool. “I should probably put on something other than pajamas. Like a bra so Pete doesn’t have to stare at my headlights.”
“He’d probably love it,” Kate said.
I trudged down the hallway, calling as I went toward the front door. “Hold on, Pete. I’m still in my pjs. I’ll be right there after I grab a sweater.”
“Mommy, it’s a man!”
I frowned, suddenly alerted to the long shadow splayed over Sofia’s tiny form where she stood in the middle of the hall, looking at the door. Every hair on the back of my neck stood up.
I knew that height. The span of those shoulders. The haughty cock of that head.
“Shit,” I whispered as I grabbed a sweater off the coat rack and made a beeline for the front door.
“Mama,” Sofia called behind me, still watching the silhouette through the translucent windows. “I don’t think it’s Pete.”
It was definitely not Pete. For one, this silhouette had about eight inches on our downstairs tenant.
“Sofia, don’t,” I snapped, much sharper than I would ever normally.
Guilt flashed through me, but she stopped just before opening the door and turned, lip quivering.
“I’m sorry, baby. Just…you shouldn’t answer the door for strangers,” I told her, more gently this time, at odds with the thump of my heart in my chest. “Please go back to the kitchen with Aunt Kate, okay?”
Her blue eyes narrowed suspiciously at me, but she nodded. “Okay.”
“Thanks, peanut.”
She shuffled down the hall.
Then thunder sounded on the other side of the door.
“Francesca!”
I didn’t move. I knew exactly who it was, but I couldn’t answer the door. It was like asking me to open a fireplace and jump right in.
“Francesca!” he shouted, followed by another thunderclap of knocks.
“Mama?” Sofia called from the kitchen.
“Stay—stay there, please,” I called back. “I’ll be right there, honey.”
Then I took a deep breath and opened the door.
Xavier stood with his fist raised, ready to launch another onslaught of knocks. He was dressed down from last night in a pair of tailored jeans and a black Smiths T-shirt that revealed a bit of a tattoo peeking up from the collar, plus an Army green puffed jacket that made him look like a street fighter. The one bit of color other than his eyes was the pair of explosive orange and blue Adidas high tops. He looked utterly gorgeous, much closer to the carefree boy I had met five years ago.