When every other guy his age was chasing fresh-faced college girls and dating women barely out of their teens, Reginald Matthews claimed he'd fallen for me at first sight.

Me. A divorced single mother.

He showed up at my breakfast burrito cart every morning, a whole crew of his buddies in tow, buying enough to keep me in business. He pulled all-nighters helping me fight my divorce case, battling my ex-husband for custody of my daughter. He even swore that he'd chase me for the rest of his life if he had to, and that as long as I didn't say yes, he'd never cross a single line.

Then came the school sports day at my daughter's school.

Moira Walker tugged at the hem of my shirt, her little face bright with hope.

"Mommy, can Uncle Reggie come?"

"I want him to be my new daddy."

That was the moment I knew my own heart. I was ready to give Reginald an answer.

I followed the location he'd tagged on his Instagram story and found the bar.

And heard him and his buddies, loose-tongued and drunk, talking about me like I was a piece of merchandise.

"You were so pissed when Fiona Lawson dumped you for that older guy."

"So to get back at her, you went and found yourself an older woman, following her around like a lost puppy every day."

"Now that little brat of hers is calling you Daddy. Don't tell me you actually fell for your own act?"

——

My hand froze on the door. I thought I must have heard wrong.

Then Reginald's voice cut through, unmistakable.

It dragged me back to reality and sent my heart plunging into ice water.

"Like they say, fresh paper pairs with fresh paper, and old newspaper pairs with old newspaper. You think she's in my league?"

His friends relaxed instantly, laughing.

"Exactly. A used-up woman like Hailey Walker? She's lucky if she lands some divorced deadbeat who smacks her around. She actually thought she had a shot with Reggie?"

"You guys haven't seen it. If he accidentally brushes against her, he's so disgusted he goes back to the dorm and showers three or four times."

"Honestly, it worked though. Fiona totally bought the act. She just got back to the country and already sent us to feel things out."

"I told her the truth about everything. She's on her way here right now."

I thought about Reginald skipping class to come stand beside me at the cart, baking under the blazing sun until his skin turned red and started to peel.

How he'd just wipe the sweat away like it was nothing and keep fumbling along, trying to learn how to fold a breakfast burrito with his clumsy hands.

How once, when my spatula accidentally grazed the back of his hand, he'd yanked it away like he'd been shocked. His ears flushed scarlet. He turned his head and couldn't look at me.

I'd laughed and called him sweet. Innocent. I thought he was being careful with me, that he treasured me.

Turns out it was just his excuse for being repulsed.

A cold numbness spread through my chest. I stood frozen in place.

A perky voice chirped behind me.

"Are you the waitress bringing drinks to this room? Why are you just standing there?"

The girl brushed past me, pushed the door open, let out a squeal, and threw herself into Reginald's arms.

She clung to him like a koala, legs wrapped around him.

"Long time no see! Did you miss me?"

Reginald's expression went stony, but she wasn't the least bit intimidated.

She leaned in and nuzzled the tip of his nose.

"Still acting like a little kid who can't hide his feelings. So grumpy all the time." She giggled. "How are you ever going to get a girlfriend like this?"

I stared, numb, at the same man who recoiled from the slightest touch of my skin.

Now his arms moved on instinct, years of habit taking over. He caught her effortlessly, his forearms flexing to support her full weight beneath her thighs.

His face darkened further. He let out a cold scoff but didn't let go.

"We broke up, Fiona. What I do is none of your business anymore."

"You're the one who likes older, mature men. Don't expect me to turn into one of them."

The light caught her face.

And I realized I'd seen it before.

One year ago. The night I caught her tangled in the sheets with my then-husband, Alvin James.

Every drop of warmth drained from my body. The room tilted, my vision swimming, and I nearly collapsed right there on the floor.

Only then did Reginald notice me. A flash of panic crossed his eyes before he forced his expression into something casual.

"What are you doing here? Don't you have the cart to run today?"

Before I could speak, Fiona slid off his lap.

She acted like she didn't recognize me, sticking out her tongue in a cutesy little apology.

"Sorry, ma'am. I didn't realize you knew Reggie. I thought you were a waitress."

Reginald frowned and instinctively turned to me. "That's just how Fiona is. She says whatever's on her mind. She doesn't mean anything by it."

"Don't take it personally."

The same people who'd been tearing me apart seconds ago burst into jeering laughter.

"Oh, the second the main girl walks in, Reggie can't help himself—already jumping to her defense!"

"Like that old hag would dare take it personally? Calling her ma'am is generous. She looks more like a grandma!"

"Who cares about her? She's useless to Reggie now anyway. Come on, raise your glasses—here's to Reggie finally shaking off that secondhand woman and her little bastard kid!"

Each word hit like a fist to the skull. I drew in a long, shaking breath.

While they were still gaping, I closed the distance in two strides.

I swung with everything I had and slapped the man so hard his head snapped to the side.

"Keep my daughter's name out of your filthy mouth. Call her that one more time, and I will rip your jaw off."

Outside the bar, the night air hit my face like cold water.

That was when I realized my whole body was shaking.

My hand found the thin card in my pocket and squeezed. The paper edge bit into my palm, and I sucked in a sharp breath.

It was the invitation Moira had made by hand.

Three stick figures drawn in crayon, holding hands in a row. Like a real family.

But the one labeled with Reginald's name was smeared now, blurred beyond recognition by the blood seeping from my palm.

For a moment I just stood there, numb, before the tears caught up to me.

The wind dried them on my cheeks. My skin pulled tight, stinging.

I'd met Reginald at the lowest point of my life.

I was fighting Alvin in a brutal divorce, left the marriage with nothing, scrambling to keep my head above water. At the same time, I'd dusted off my parents' old trade and started selling breakfast burritos from a street cart—anything to cover Moira's tuition and keep food on the table.

The very first morning I set out, the cart's tire blew on the way there.

I crouched on the curb for what felt like forever, hands black with grease, and the tire stayed flat.

But if I didn't set up that day, Moira and I wouldn't eat.

Then I heard her stomach growl. She pressed her little hand against it and whispered, "I'm not hungry, Mommy. My tummy's just being weird."

That broke me. I dropped to the ground right there on the sidewalk and sobbed, smearing grease across my face when I tried to wipe the tears.

That was when Reginald appeared.

He ran three blocks to borrow a pump, then got down on his hands and knees to inflate the tire. Black grease smeared across his white T-shirt, and he didn't care. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and grinned up at me. "All set. Give it a try."

He pushed the cart all the way to the night market and didn't leave until the stand was set up.

After that, he started showing up every day with a handful of friends, claiming they were there to drum up business. When they teased him about having a crush on me, I laughed it off as a joke. But his ears turned red all the way down to his neck.

"Would that… would that be okay?" he stammered.

Moira wanted nothing to do with him at first. She wouldn't even give him a second word.

One afternoon I was swamped at the cart and missed the call that school had let out early. It was Reginald who sprinted through the pouring rain, searching more than a dozen streets until he found my lost little girl.

After that, Moira finally let him in.

And now I had to tell her the truth—tell a child who'd only just begun to trust again that none of it was real.

I stumbled back to the apartment in a daze. It was already the dead of night.

My daughter had fallen asleep on the couch waiting for me to come home.

My heart ached so badly it nearly crumbled. I was about to carry her back to her room when I realized her whole body was burning up, her little face flushed scarlet with fever.

I rushed her to the hospital by cab. It wasn't until the next morning that her temperature finally started to come down.

The doctor fixed me with a stern look. "This child had a fever for half the night before you thought to bring her in. A few more hours and she would've been severely dehydrated. Pills wouldn't have fixed that."

Guilt and fear gnawed at me. I hadn't slept all night and didn't dare close my eyes, staying glued to the chair beside her hospital bed.

Then I remembered the phone watch I'd bought her. I opened the companion app and checked the call log.

Over a dozen missed calls.

Every single one to Reginald.

He was the one who'd insisted on being listed as her emergency contact. He'd looked me in the eye and sworn, "I'll always be there for Moira. You can count on me."

And this was what that promise was worth.

A friend request notification popped up on my phone. No message attached. I recognized the sender from her latest Instagram story.

Fiona.

She'd posted a live photo of herself pouting, pressing a kiss to Reginald's cheek. In the background, clothes were scattered across the floor beside a sheet stained with smudges and water marks. When I tapped the photo, her coy, breathy voice filled my ears.

"Your phone's been ringing nonstop since we started. You're really not going to answer?"

Reginald's voice came through low and husky. "Nothing in the world is more important than you."

My vision went black. I couldn't bear to imagine it—every ring of every call my daughter made had been nothing but background music to their little performance.

Reginald didn't show up until that afternoon, dragging Fiona along with him.

He looked frantic. His voice dripped with guilt.

"How's Moira? This is all my fault. My phone was off last night—I never got the calls."

"You've been up all night. You must be exhausted. Go get some rest. Fiona and I can watch her."

But whether he truly never got those calls or chose to ignore them—I knew the answer better than he did.

My daughter was my bottom line.

I looked at Reginald, and whatever softness he'd managed to coax out of me was gone. Every wall snapped back into place, every thorn pointed outward. My voice came out cold as steel.

"No need. My daughter is mine to take care of."

"We're done."

I've always been a woman of my word.

When I said it was over with Reginald, I meant it. I blocked his number, his social media—every way he had of reaching me.

He resorted to showing up at my cart to buy breakfast burritos just to get a chance to talk.

The morning crowd pressed in on all sides. He opened his mouth, struggled, his face reddening.

"Fiona and I—it's not what you think."

I didn't look up. I finished making his order and held it out to him.

"What does that have to do with me?"

He stood there, frozen, for several seconds.

The color drained from his face, then flooded back in a mottled, livid flush. He never came to the cart again.

Instead, he paraded around campus with Fiona on his arm for all to see.

Everyone said I'd been dumped—that the secondhand goods had finally been thrown away. And because I was a divorced single mother who happened to be pretty, every creep in the area suddenly thought I was fair game.

One morning, a heavyset man with a bloated face leaned over the counter, pretending to buy a burrito. His thick fingers reached out and stroked the back of my hand.

I slapped his hand away. My expression turned to ice.

"If you're not here to buy food, move."

My voice carried. Every head in the crowd turned.

The man's face swelled an ugly shade of purple, humiliated in front of everyone.

"Stuck-up bitch. Someone offers you a little attention and you spit in their face?"

"You're damaged goods that's already been passed around. What's the big deal if I cop a feel?"

He grabbed the edge of my cart and flipped it.

The crash of metal slamming into pavement exploded in my ears. The scalding griddle smashed against my forearm.

White-hot pain shot through me, instant and blinding, like the skin was being ripped clean off the bone.