FALLING FOR MY MOM'S FIANCÉ

Maya

I pull my hand back like I've been burned, wiping my knuckles against the fabric of my dress as if that'll erase the feeling of his lips there. When I look at Philip again, his jaw is tight, so tight I can see the muscle working under his skin and his eyes are fixed on where Ethan touched me, dark with something I can't read.

"Ethan," Philip says, his voice even but edged with steel. "The band asked if you'd join them for a song. They remember you from last year-said they still haven't found anyone who can play bass like you do."

Ethan rolls his eyes but doesn't argue, letting his hand fall away from mine. "They just want someone who'll play their terrible jazz covers. Fine... I'll go make myself useful. But I'm not playing 'My Funny Valentine' again. That song makes me want to throw things."

He gives me a small wave as he turns to head toward the stage, walking through the crowd with an easy confidence that's nothing like Philip's quiet poise. A few people call out his name... friends, by the sound of it, and he stops to hug a woman in a bright yellow gown, laughing at something she says.

My mom lets out a soft breath, reaching for my arm again. This time I let her hold on, her fingers cool and familiar against my skin. "I'm sorry you found out this way, Maya. I really was going to tell you-I just... I was scared."

"Scared of what?" I ask, still watching Philip. "Scared I'd be angry? You should have known that."

"I was scared you'd hate me." Her voice is quiet, barely audible over the music starting up again-Ethan's already on stage, tuning a bass guitar, his fingers moving over the strings with practiced ease. "I know I hurt you and your dad. I know I didn't handle things well. But Philip... he makes me feel like myself again. Like the woman I was before I spent years worrying about bills and whether we'd ever be good enough."

"Good enough for who?" The question comes out harsher than I intend. "You and Dad were good enough for me. We were happy."

"We were comfortable," she says gently. "There's a difference."

I pull away from her, shaking my head. "I don't want to talk about this. I just want to leave."

"Please don't." She gestures toward the tables scattered around the room. "At least stay for a little while. Have a drink. Talk to Ethan... he's much easier to get along with than Philip, I promise. And he's been asking about you since I told him you're studying marketing."

"Of course he has." I glance toward the stage. Ethan's playing now, his eyes closed as he lets the music fill the room. The bass line is deep and smooth, making the floor vibrate under my feet. "He's just trying to be nice so I'll stop hating his brother."

"Maybe he just wants to get to know you." She squeezes my shoulder before letting go. "I'm going to go check on the cake. Janet was worried about the tiers sliding. Please... just give them a chance."

She walks away, weaving through the crowd toward the back of the room where a huge white cake sits on a pedestal table. I'm left standing alone, the noise of the party closing in around me-people laughing, clinking glasses, talking about business deals and vacation plans and all the things that don't matter right now.

A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne flutes, and I reach out without thinking, taking one. The cold glass feels good against my palm, and I take a long sip... bubbles burn my throat, but it's better than the tightness that's been building there all day.

"Not a fan of champagne?"

I turn to find Ethan standing beside me, his bass guitar resting against his hip. He's shed the velvet jacket, leaving him in just the white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms dusted with dark hair.

"I'm not a fan of parties," I say, taking another sip. "Or surprises. Or people who think they can fix things by buying expensive dresses and big cakes."

"Fair enough." He grins, taking a flute from the tray as the waiter passes by again. "Though for the record, I think the cake is a waste of money. You could buy a really good motorcycle for what they spent on sugar flowers."

I can't help but laugh-a short, sharp sound, but it's real. "A motorcycle? You don't seem like the motorcycle type."

"And you don't seem like the 'storm into your mom's engagement party in a red dress' type, but here we are." He leans against the wall beside me, taking a sip of his drink. "My brother told me you think he broke up your parents."

"I know he did."

"Does he know you think that?"

"He knows now." I gesture toward where Philip is standing across the room, talking to a group of men in dark suits, all of them nodding like he's saying something brilliant. "He didn't deny it. He just said I was wrong."

"Philip doesn't deny much of anything. He just carries it." Ethan looks out over the crowd, his expression softening. "They met at a charity gala last year before your mom and dad split up. He was sponsoring the event, she was designing the decorations. They became friends. That's all it was at first."

"Friends who get engaged two months after a divorce?"

"Sometimes things move fast when you know what you want." He turns to look at me, his eyes dark and serious now. "Your mom was hurting, Maya. She'd been hurting for a long time. Philip helped her find her way back to herself. He didn't break anything that wasn't already broken."

"How do you know?" I ask, my voice quiet. "How do you know they didn't start seeing each other while she was still married?"

"Because I was there." He takes another sip of champagne. "Philip's not perfect, he's far from it. He's stubborn and he thinks he can fix everything on his own and he never knows when to stop working. But he'd never do that. He'd never hurt someone like that."

I look at him... at the same face as Philip, but different somehow, softer around the edges. He seems to be telling the truth, but I don't know if I can trust him. I don't know anything about either of them.

"Did you know my dad?" I ask.

"Robert? Yeah-Philip mentioned him a few times. Said he was a good man who loved your mom very much." He pauses, looking at me carefully. "Your mom still loves him too, you know. That's part of why she didn't tell you about Philip, she didn't want to hurt you more than you already were."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Love rarely does." He leans in a little closer, his breath warm against my ear. "She's trying to move forward, but she's not ready to let go of the past. None of us are. Especially not you."

His words hit me hard, and I have to look away to keep from crying. He's right... I've been holding on to the idea of my parents being together, of things going back to the way they were, and the thought of letting go terrifies me.

"You're very good at reading people," I say, my voice barely a whisper.

"I'm very good at listening." He pulls back, his gaze dropping to my lips for a split second before moving back to my eyes. "Would you like to get out of here? There's a bar around the corner that serves the best whiskey sour you've ever tasted. And they've got a jukebox that plays nothing but old soul music."

I glance toward Philip, he's looking at us now, his conversation with the other men forgotten. His eyes are dark, unreadable, and I feel a jolt of something that's part anger, part something else I don't want to name.

"I shouldn't," I say.

"Probably not." He grins, pulling out his phone. "But when has that ever stopped anyone? I'll even call you a cab if you want to leave after one drink. No pressure."

Before I can answer, a hand touches my shoulder...heavy, firm, familiar. I turn to find Philip standing behind me, his eyes fixed on Ethan.

"Ethan," he says, his voice low. "We need to talk. Now."

Ethan sighs, but he doesn't argue. He gives me a small smile and slips a piece of paper into my hand, folded small, still warm from his pocket. "If you change your mind. The bar's called The Blue Note-you'll know it when you see it."

He follows Philip toward the back of the room, leaving me standing there with the paper in my hand and the taste of champagne on my tongue. I unfold it, his number is written there in neat handwriting, along with a note: Ask for the house sour. They put extra bitters in it.

I look up just as Philip turns back to glance at me...his eyes meet mine, and this time there's something in them I recognize.