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“Sunny Morris.”

“Nice to meet you, Sunny. That’s a cool name. Follow me, please.” She sits behind a simple desk and smiles at us when we’re also sitting. “Tucker told me you were joining the household earlier this week, so we’ve prepared all the documentation we need you to sign to add you to the list of people who can pick up the boys.”

I nod at her and take the papers to read through them.

It’s all standard stuff, but I do have to sign off with my actual name that I can see makes her smile when she reads through them.

She and Tucker talk about the Ottie debacle while I read through page after page, and I get the impression that they’re pretty familiar with each other.

The picture that thought brings up in my brain has every cell of my body tensing before I can stop myself.

Stop it, Sullivan, I tell myself sternly.

It’s seriously beyond none of my business.

So what?

The boys haven’t been in Tucker’s care for a month but he’s already all chummy with the woman who takes care of them every day.

Why would that be . . . wrong?

Honestly, I need to get a handle on my stupid brain.

But I can’t let it go.

I’m too quiet after we’re done discussing the rules of the place and saying goodbye to Helen—who’s a perfectly nice woman, I remind myself—and I know I should be talking . . . asking questions, anything, while we’re in the car heading back to the house.

If Tucker wants to get it on with a forty-year-old, capable, objectively attractive woman who didn’t have a wedding ring anywhere in sight, then why the fuck should I care?

I shouldn’t.

I don’t.

“The boys have tracking devices on their backpacks.” The frankly worrying sentence is the icebreaker Tucker chooses to go with, and I can’t really blame him, can I?

Not when, if I’d been held at gunpoint and made to start a conversation, I probably would’ve gone with something a lot more mortifying.

Like, how many times have you and Helen fucked?

I’m instantly disgusted with how controlling that question sounds in my head. I should know better. I should be better.

Hell, if Tucker owed me any kind of information regarding his . . . romantic life—which he doesn’t!—then it still would be an awful thing to ask him.

It’s the kind of bullshit question Henry would’ve asked—did ask.

And I can’t be anything like him. I won’t let myself. Ever. No matter what.

With that decided in my head, I manage to get back to . . . tracking devices.

“Okay,” I say, when I can’t come up with anything else.

“I’ll send over the instructions on how to give you access to the locations.” He takes out his phone to do just that, and I . . . just sit there.

In traffic.

Well aware that it’s going to take us way longer to get back to the house than our first car ride did.

I have to say something else, ask about anything else, because the thought of being in charge of two boys who need tracking devices is too daunting to keep thinking about it.