Page 50 of Something Like Shelter

It was an unexpectedly intriguing image that I wanted to linger on, so I quickly made my way back outside. I took a few deep breaths, reminding myself not to get wrapped up in the fantasy of him. But some part of me knew it was probably a little too late for that. Besides, a fantasy wasn’t a bad thing. So long as I didn’t try to act on it.

I grabbed the pastry box and took a leisurely walk back to the house, taking the time to really soak it all in.

Inside, I heard Owen soft-talking to Adelaide, making that gooey sensation start again. But it intensified when I walked into the kitchen to find he’d pulled her out of her pumpkin seat and had her cradled in his arm. She looked up at him with those big baby eyes, blowing little spit bubbles, her mouth opening and closing like she was trying to talk back to him.

I said nothing, just stood there and absorbed the picture and the sensations associated with it.

“So this was what it was like,” I thought, “to see your baby being loved by a father figure.”

Except, of course, Owen wasn’t Adelaide’s father. Unfortunately for her. For both of us. Because there wasn’t any possibility that Owen would have walked away from her, washed his hands of the life he’d made.

“She was fussing,” Owen said, making me jump as he turned and caught me watching. “I didn’t want her to get too worked up.”

“Thank you,” I said, my voice small.

“You okay?” Owen asked, head cocking to the side as he looked at me.

I shook off my negative thoughts and plastered on a smile. “Yeah. I hope you like cannoli or brownies. They felt like the safest bet.”

“Love them both.”

“Want me to take her?”

“I’ve got her for a minute. Do you want to get yourself a drink? I’ve got coffee—decaf too—or tea. And there is water, soda, and iced tea in the fridge.”

“Thanks,” I said, walking over to the coffee maker. He was a purist—he had a drip coffee machine, no lattes, no single serve. A pot had to be made.

“Everything is in the cabinet right above it.”

I was aware of Owen bringing Adelaide over toward the window to show her the stained glass as I put the filter and decaf grounds into it and set the pot to brew.

“Are you having a cup? Fair warning, it’s decaf.”

“Yeah, I’ll have a cup.”

The mugs were on the shelf next to the filters and grounds—solid stoneware fifteen-ounce mugs in a speckled white with a two-inch-wide terracotta stripe on the bottom.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“I have this set saved,” I admitted.

“Because they come with pasta bowls on top of cereal ones?” he asked with a smile.

“That’s exactly why.”

“I use them all the time. They’re a better size for salads too.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“They’re as good quality as the reviews say. But they can be a pain to fit in the dishwasher if your shelf doesn’t go up a bit.”

“Good to know,” I said, going into the fridge for the cream and pouring some into each of our cups. I found the sugar canister on the counter and added that as well.

“Want to check out the yard while we wait?” he asked.

“Yes, please.”