“Ice cream, Daddy,” Daisy sings out, breaking the tension. Zander smiles at his daughter.
“Ice cream it is.” He gives me a nod and walks through the door. The screen glides shut behind him, and I open it and close it again, checking out his handiwork. He’s a hockey player, good with a stick, but I guess I never took him for a handyman, too. From what Quinn told me, after their mother walked out on them when they were young, their father worked long hours as a mail carrier and wasn’t there much for the family. A lot of the responsibility fell on Zander.
As my thoughts go to Quinn, I grab my cell from my back pocket and send her a text.
Zander and Daisy just left.
Three dots repeat as she texts back.
How did it go?
Great, Daisy is a sweetie.
I stare at the phone as she texts back, debating my next words.
She really is. Zander is doing a great job with her.
Speaking of Zander…
Your brother is nice.
I leave out the hotter-than-hell part. Best not to give Quinn any ideas. I haven’t known her that long—we met a couple years back, after she started her own daycare and was searching for a speech pathologist—but she’s always trying to set me up. I had just graduated when she first reached out to me, working at a clinic to gain experience. We hit it off, but she’s always at me—you need to date, Sam. You need to get out more.
She’s not wrong.
He fixed my door.
That was nice of him.
/> Like I said, he’s nice. I’d like to repay him. Any ideas how?
Three little dots pop up again, and I fully expect her to come back with something inappropriate. Then again, maybe not. This is, after all, her big brother.
He likes pie.
I stare at that for a moment and wonder what she’s getting at. Pie? I text back. Where the hell is she going with this?
Yeah, homemade. Especially cherry.
Are you suggesting I make him a cherry pie?
And deliver it to him. He’s home with Daisy tonight. I’ll send you his address.
I ignore the odd little thrill that he’s not on some hot date.
Don’t you think that’s a bit much?
No.
His address comes through, and I do a double take. He’s in one hell of a posh area of Cambridge. Then again, it shouldn’t surprise me. He’s a hockey player worth millions. I can’t imagine what he thought of my rundown little place, or what he’d think of the small house I’d grown up in. It wasn’t much, but I had the love and support of my mother and father.
Gotta run, Scotty is crying.
I slide my finger across the phone and end the call. Turning, I stare down the hall and into my kitchen.
Wait, I’m not really considering Quinn’s suggestion, am I? How weird would it be to find myself on Zander’s doorstep with a cherry pie in hand—a homemade cherry pie. I do make a mean one, having spent a lot of time in the kitchen baking with Mom when I was young.
The man fixed my door. A cherry pie to thank him is overkill, and he’d probably think I was crazy. Okay, enough of that. I am not going to bake him a pie and deliver it. No way. No how.