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Shiloh is standing on his stool with toothpaste foam around his mouth. He grins at me in the mirror. “Look!”

“I see.”

“I’m a rabid dinosaur.”

I close my eyes, but I can’t fight the smile.

Behind me, Noelle snickers.

“You taught him this?”

“I absolutely did not.”

I meet Noelle’s eyes in the mirror. She’s in the doorway behind me, framed in the warm light from the hall, one shoulder propped against the jamb. The three of us are reflected back in the fogged glass. Shiloh in front. Me behind him. Her behind me.

It looks like the picture in the Popsicle stick frame. Only real.

She’s lying, of course. She obviously taught him that.

I point at her reflection. “We’ll discuss this later.”

Her eyes sparkle. “Promises, promises.”

My entire body reacts.

Heat. Low and sudden and sharp, like someone struck a match at the base of my spine.

She doesn’t seem to realize what she said. Or maybe she does, because her smile disappears. Her lips part. Color rises up her throat, slow and pink, and in the mirror I watch it climb all the way to her cheeks.

I stare at her.

She stares back.

And then Shiloh spits loudly into the sink.

Which seems to break the spell. It’s probably for the best. I tell myself that twice. It doesn’t sound any more convincing the second time.

chapter

thirteen

Noelle

We read three books.

Maverick reads the first.

I read the second.

Shiloh demands we both stay for the third.

So we do.

This is considerably more complicated than it sounds because Shiloh’s bed wasn’t designed to accommodate two adults and a four-year-old.

Especially when one of those adults is approximately the size of a refrigerator.

A very attractive refrigerator.