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“Damn. Why, boss?”

“Because you both work for me.”

“She’s not technically my coworker, though,” he tries to reason with me.

“If things get weird, everybody will be uncomfortable, so my final answer is still a no.”

Boone watches me from across the garage, wisely staying quiet for once while Dennis pouts. “I was just asking. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“She’s also in the middle of a divorce,” I continue before I can stop myself. “Maybe don’t turn her life into a dating experiment.”

That earns me a brief silence. Then Boone says casually, “You sounded awfully protective.”

I shoot him a flat look without answering and he grins. Across the garage, Heather snorts into her drink while Dennis looks between all of us like he’s watching a live match and can’t keep up with what’s happening. I ignore them.

But even as the conversation dies off and classic rock fills the silence again, my mind drifts anyway. To Peyton laughing in the grocery store. To her standing beside me with Tilly in her arms. To how natural it all feels. Which is probably the exact reason Boone won’t stop grinning at me for the rest of the workday.

10

PEYTON

My first Sunday in Brooklyn arrives with perfect farmer's market weather. I stand in front of the mirror in the guest room, twisting my hair into a loose clip before putting on denim shorts and a light shirt with cute lace detailing in the front.

Down the hall, Ollie moves around in the kitchen, speaking in the soothing tone that always comes out when he’s talking to his niece. I pause at the doorway, watching them together. He’s holding Tilly over his shoulder, burping her with careful pats. The bags under his eyes tell me he hasn’t slept well, but he’s still putting everything into caring for that little girl. A strange ache hits me behind my ribs. My emotions are all over the place this week.

Part of it might be that my period is coming soon. As if the emotional toll isn't enough, the physical part scares me every month. Even after three operations for endometriosis, some days still suck. The cramps, the heavy periods, the following nausea…it’s all exhausting. I should probably tell Ollie at some point, so he knows why I might be a little quiet or curled up with a heating pad, instead of brushing it off like it’s nothing. That's what I used to do after Nathan told me I was overreacting many times. He truly is an asshole. What did I ever see in him?

Ollie looks up and spots me watching. “Morning.”

“Morning,” I reply with a smile. “How was your night?”

He makes a face that tells me everything. “She only woke up four times, which is a victory after the first week.”

“That’s a victory indeed,” I assure him.

He nods in agreement, then looks down at Tilly. “You hear that, Tills? We’re crushing it.”

Her eyelids flutter, heavy with sleep. I check the clock. “Are you interested in the farmer's market and brunch or do you want to stay in?”

A hint of relief crosses his face. Maybe he needs an excuse to leave the apartment as much as I do. “Visiting the market is a Sunday ritual around here. You’ll like it. I have to work after, but we have two hours before then.”

Tilly is asleep by the time we step out into the stairwell, her mouth slightly open. She looks like an angel who has never screamed in her life, which is a lie, but a very convincing one.

Ollie pushes the stroller as we walk down the block side by side. The local neighborhood farmer’s market appears ahead as white tents line the street creating a little temporary village while music plays.

We stop at a fruit stand first. Strawberries are stacked in little baskets, the red so bright they almost look fake. I buy some, and then we’re at a bread stall that smells heavenly. Ollie greets the vendor by name, reminding me this is his community.

“You’re a regular,” I say once we move on, a fresh loaf tucked into his tote bag.

“When I first moved here, visiting the market made the city feel less big,” he explains. “I normally have an early lunch break on Sundays to stop by before the stalls close at noon. Over the years, I’ve made friends with the vendors. It helps that I’m a local business owner myself.”

We keep moving, trying little bites of different food items as we chat. Ollie tells me he’s lived in his apartment for almost four years, that the shop came first and the apartment above was a practical investment. He talks about how he learned to fix cars because it was something he could control unlike people. I tell him about the Impala, my grandpa and how driving the car across the country meant I was taking a piece of him with me.

“Tell me more about your grandpa.”

I smile softly. “He was stubborn as hell, but also loyal to his core. The kind of man who fixed everything himself and refused to admit he needed help.”

Ollie nods, expression thoughtful. “Sounds familiar.”