Page 35 of Something’s Brewing

“That was rude of me,” he said quickly, voice lower now. “You don’t have to answer.”

She inhaled slowly. “No, it’s okay. You’re not the first to ask.”

She stared at the road for a long beat before speaking again.

“The short version: His name was Tyler. We dated for six months. He knew I was pregnant. He died before Sophie was born.”

Garrett was quiet, his grip on the wheel tightening slightly.

“Would you two have married?” he asked gently.

Madison shook her head slowly. “He never asked. And honestly . . . I don’t know if I would have said yes.”

She could feel Garrett looking at her again, but she kept her gaze ahead.

“He was a good man,” she said. “Grew up in the system. No family. Never got adopted, bounced around. But he had this way of making you feel like you were the only person in the room. He was . . . kind. Grounded. But there were things Mason didn’t like. Things I ignored.”

Garrett waited, respectful.

“When he was called up for training,” she continued, “he changed his beneficiary paperwork. Left everything to me and Sophie. I didn’t even know until I got the notification after.”

She swallowed. “Because of him, Sophie’s college is paid for. Her graduate degree too, if she wants it. He gave her more than I ever could have imagined.”

Garrett’s expression revealed a flicker of something—understanding, maybe, or something closer to grief.

“You’re a good mom,” he said.

“Thanks.”

They pulled into the drive as the sun was descending across the still lake.

Garrett shifted the truck into park but didn’t kill the engine right away. After a moment, he looked at her again. “Thanks for telling me.”

She nodded, her voice soft. “Thanks for asking.”

And in the silence that followed, something passed between them, until the moment was interrupted by the sound of Madison’s growling stomach echoing louder than it should have. She winced.

Garrett turned his head slightly, that hint of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Hungry?”

“I’m fine,” she lied.

He tilted his head, clearly unconvinced.

“Okay, maybe a little.”

“Come on. I’ve got pasta salad in the fridge.” He turned and started toward his patio door.

She blinked. “You cook?”

He glanced back over his shoulder. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I just didn’t peg you as a cold-salad-and-fresh-veggies kind of guy.”

He grinned. “I like burgers and fries as much as the next guy, but you can’t live on grease alone. Cold salads are a summer hobby—especially when half the garden ends up on your porch, courtesy of well-meaning neighbors.”

Madison followed him into his condo, and immediately forgot about the salad.

His place was stunning.