Chapter 3

Their space couldn’t be more different than my own “kitchen,” which is a sad excuse for a kitchenette, and the only things stuck to my fridge are takeout menus. I can make toast in a pinch. And bacon. But that’s about it.

Ugh, I’m a sad, lonely, old man. My throat closes up as though I’m about to cry. What the hell, I never cry.

“I love your kitchen,” I blurt.

Ronan looks around as though he’s trying to see what I see. “Thanks,” he says with a smile full of pride.

“Am I keeping you from your bed?” I lift the World’s Greatest Dadcup—he has several with the same message—and inhale. The citrusy, floral scent of bergamot makes its way into my nose, and I hum. Earl Grey is my favorite tea and the appreciation for the beverage is something I’ve acquired here in Ronan’s kitchen.

“No, it’s okay,” he says. “I need to unwind after a shift anyway.”