Her fingers are tugging on one of the pink-streaked strands of her long hair.
Guilt is still nagging at me. She doesn’t need to be here. I could wake Harold and have him open the lobby door of her building for her, but I’m not selfish often.
I need this.
“I made coffee,” I announce as I approach her from behind, not wanting to startle her.
Her shoulders still jump in surprise at the sound of my voice. “You did?”
I hand her one of the large white mugs before I pull a folding chair across the floor. I take a seat next to her, wrapping my hands around my mug.
She looks down at the cup she’s holding. “I thought I smelled coffee brewing, but I didn’t know if it was my mind playing a cruel trick on me.”
I laugh. “It’s real. Two sugars and a splash of cream for you; extra, extra hot for me.”
She presses her lips together, her big brown eyes searching my face.
I offer her a quick explanation, so she doesn’t assume that I spend all my time studying every nuance of her life. “I overheard you at Palla’s the other day. I found some cream in my refrigerator. My brother takes his coffee with a load of cream and no sugar. He knows to bring it with him when he stops by for a coffee.”
“You have a brother?” She flashes me a wide grin.
I blow on the coffee and take a small sip. “Two.”
“Younger or older?” Her head tilts to the side.
I could get used to this; easy conversations over coffee late at night with the wind whipping the night air into surrender. It’s soft howl the perfect backdrop to the darkness outside.
“I’m the oldest,” I go on, “I have a sister too. She’s the youngest.”
“Four kids?” Her eyes widen. “What was that like growing up?”
Hell. My father could barely function after my mom died of cancer. He’d drag himself from his bed, go to work, rinse and repeat until he collapsed under the weight of his grief.
That’s when Marti stepped in and fired the babysitters, worked out a childcare schedule with the Calvetti family and told my dad it was all right for him to love again.
He did.
He met a beautiful woman. Irena. She brought her daughter, Chloe, into our lives and our family was reborn with a framed picture of my mom front and center on the mantle over the fireplace.
Death stole Irena from us too.
“I have few complaints.” I rest my hand on my thigh. “What about you? Brothers? Sisters?”
“A sister,” she confesses softly. “She’s younger than me.”
My eyes catch on her bare legs. They’re outstretched in front of her. Her skin is soft and tanned. It’s flawless except for a small circular scar below her right knee.
“What happened there?” I reach out to touch it but stop myself. Instead, I circle my finger above it.
Her eyes follow the path of my hand. “What?”
“The scar.”
She bends her knee. The movement shifts the fabric of her shorts to expose even more of her upper thigh. “It’s embarrassing.”
I swallow more coffee. “It can’t be more embarrassing than how I got my scar.”
Her brows rise i