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I hate that I feel anything at all.

“Dinner would be nice, Faye.”

“Great. Okay. Yeah, dinner.” I’m an idiot. I pull in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Composure is a work in progress, obviously. “The kids will be happy to have you.”

Holt bobs his head for a few beats, but his dark eyes never leave my face. “And you?”

“Me what?” Did I just squeak? Lord, tell me I didn’t…

“Will you be happy to have me, Faye?”

Is he trying to ruin me? Is this a game to him?

I don’t think so…

I give him the only honest reply I can. “I will, Holt.”

“We kicked ass!” Owen is pumped up by the win and spending time with his—Holt.

I haven’t seen this light in him since…

“Ass is a bad word,” Mabel points out.

“Mabel,” I warn on a sigh of pure exhaustion. The day has been a long one and the week has been even longer. Thankfully, it’s almost done.

She points her finger at her brother. “Owen said it first.”

“I’m older than you,” Owen dunks his bun into his chili.

“Owen.” I shake my head at my son. I can feel Holt watching me. Watching the dynamics of my family. I change the subject. “Did you play against Hayden?”

“Yep. He was pi—” he cuts off before he says what we all know he was about to say. “He lost.”

Holt bites out a laugh. “Good save, kid.”

Owen’s grin glows under the male praise. I duck my head, so no one sees me flinch at the pinch of pain that claws inside my heart. Under the pain, there’s a deep-seeded pleasure I can’t deny. My son is glowing. But Tate isn’t here to see it, and that adds to the ever-present pain.

“Was Adeline there?” Owen nods. “Colt, too?” Owen nods again. “And Harlow?”

“Yeah, Mom. Everyone was there.”

“I need to text Adeline.”

Holt leans into the table, giving Mabel his attention. “And how was dance for you, Mabel?”

“I didn’t get to wear a tutu.” She says it like it’s a crime against little girls everywhere.

By the expression Holt wears, it’s clear he’s not sure how to respond. “Well, what did you get to wear?”

“A boring body suit.” She pouts. Her eyes land on me. “Mom said I could wear a tutu.”

“When you compete,” I clarify.

Holt considers. “Weren’t you wearing a tutu when you met me? If I remember correctly, it was purple.”

With all the perfunctory fact she can muster, Mabel folds her little hands on the table as she tells him, “I have one in every color.”

Holt’s eyes flick up to mine. There’s a smirk in there somewhere, I’m sure of it. “I bet you do.”