But not tonight.

“Me too.” I stand up and Chelsea walks me to the foyer.

Beside the door, we stand facing each other. And there’s a pull—like a fucking magnet—dragging me closer. “Chelsea . . . ,” I whisper—with no idea what I’m about to say.

I just like the taste of her name on my lips.

My heart hammers . . . and I lean forward . . . she raises her face and closes her eyes and—

“Aunt Chelsea!”

The blond pixie’s voice washes over us from upstairs, like a cold shower.

Goddamn it.

“I had a bad dream! Will you lay down with me?”

Chelsea steps back with a resigned groan, and I feel her pain. Literally.

“I’ll be right up, Rosaleen.” She shrugs at me apologetically. “Duty calls.”

I rub my lips together, making a frustrated smacking sound. “Yeah.”

She puts her hand on my chest; it’s warm and electrifying. “Thank you again. I really owe you now. Multiples.”

And I just can’t resist. “That’s my line.”

Chelsea giggles. “Good night, Jake.”

“Bye.”

I walk out the door and head home.

9

On Sunday, during breakfast at Sofia and Stanton’s place, there’s an expected visitor. “Hey, Sunshine,” I greet her, walking into the dining room.

“Hey, Jake!” Presley Shaw wraps her arms around my waist.

Presley’s almost thirteen now, and in the year or so since I last saw her—when Brent and I visited Mississippi for her mother’s wedding—she’s lost some of the cute baby roundness in her face, moving one step closer to a full-fledged golden-haired southern beauty.

Her teen years will be fun. Stanton’s gonna lose his fucking mind—and probably his hair.

We sit down to eat and he asks, “Remember that band manager I represented last year? The DWI.”

There are nods all around.

“Turns out he works with One Direction now, and they’re in town. He sent me four front-row seats to the concert tomorrow. Sofia and I were gonna take Presley.”

“Who’s One Direction?” I inquire, but don’t actually care.

Presley’s eyes bug out. “Who’s One Direction? What, y’all live under a rock?” She holds up the magazine she’s been flipping through and flashes me a picture of four punks in skinny jeans. “This is One Direction. I’m so excited!” she squeals. “The concert is gonna be so on point.”

My eyebrows rise to Stanton. “Have fun with that, buddy.”

Stanton chews a cheese ball, his green eyes alight with humor. “Soph and I were talkin’—we thought instead of tossing the fourth ticket, it might be nice if you came with me and Presley instead. You and that Riley girl.”

“Are you nuts?” I ask, because—obviously.

“Please, Jake?” Sunshine begs. “It’ll be so much fun havin’ a girl my own age there with me.” She turns to her father. “No offense, but you and Sofia just don’t get it.”

Stanton shrugs. “No offense taken. I still know I’m the cool daddy.”

Presley puts her hand on his arm. “I love you, Daddy, but whatever you think cool is? It’s not that.”

Stanton gives her a mock frown.

And her bright blue eyes plead with me. “Come on, Jake. I bet you’ll like them. Their music is amazin’—better than the Beatles.”

I fear for today’s youth.

“It might be good for her,” Stanton says, pressing me. Because I told him all about Riley’s Friday-night misadventures with Jägermeister.

I sigh, already knowing I’m going to regret this.

But I pick up my phone to call Chelsea anyway.

• • •

The next day, Stanton, Sofia, Presley, and I arrive at Chelsea’s house after work. She hasn’t told Riley about the concert yet, wanted it to be a surprise. And she said she didn’t want to risk Riley’s shattering the windows with her screams of excitement.

Oh—and Brent tagged along too. Because I’ve mentioned Chelsea and the kids at lunch and he wants to meet them. Also, because he has no life.

We gather in the foyer and I make the introductions. Chelsea greets each of my friends warmly. She’s wearing a casual, pale blue shirtdress that displays miles of smooth, succulent legs. And I fantasize about Stanton taking the girls on his own, and Sofia and Brent taking the rest of the rabble. Far, far away.

“Hi,” Regan says to Sofia, toddling into the room and holding a stuffed bear who looks like he’s seen better days.

“Hi,” Sofia replies, smiling.

“Hi!” Regan squeaks.

“Hi!” Sofia laughs.

And here we fucking go again.

For my own sanity, I’ve gotta teach this kid another word.

Stanton and Brent pick up their conversation from lunch—the ongoing “perfect murder” game. “Drowning,” Brent says insistently, ticking off his points on his fingers. “Chances are the body will be too decomposed to retain any useful evidence, and there’s a built-in alibi because the defendant can always claim the person slipped. It worked like a charm for Natalie Wood’s husband.”

Stanton shakes his blond head. “I’m still stickin’ with an allergic reaction.”

Raymond adjusts his glasses and jumps into the conversation. “Are you guys talking about the best way to off somebody?”