The Mommy Bride. Shelley Galloway
“It sure does look like snow,” he murmured.
Frustrated with herself, with her body’s reaction to sudden touches—thanks to one randomly violent ex-husband—Claire deposited her tote bag on the hood of her car and hastily pulled out a pen and paper.
“My place is easy to get to from here,” she said, unable to bring herself to discussing her flinching. Of course, what could she say? That she was holding on to a bag of past experiences so tightly that it was a wonder she could ever loosen her grip? “Do you know Lane’s End very well?”
“Pretty well. I live here, too.”
Why didn’t she know that? She’d just assumed he lived farther into Cincinnati. In expensive Hyde Park or one of the more trendy places where up-and-coming singles lived.
“I’m in the Arrowlake Apartments.”
“Off Main?”
“Yep.”
She wrote down quick directions even as she said them out loud. “If you go in the second entrance, we’re the far back building…F. Wes and I are on the second floor. Apt. 210F.”
“What time?”
“Seven?”
“Seven’s just fine. I’ll see you and Wes tomorrow night at seven o’clock.”
Their fingers touched when the note was passed. For the first time, though, Ty didn’t look attentive, only troubled. “Would you like me to bring anything?”
“No, it’s my treat, remember?”
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