Really, it was more like she was looking for someone. She had embarrassed herself on more than one occasion because of it. Like chasing down that kindergarten teacher at Henry’s school. Something about her pastel cardigan and pixie hair had triggered something in Emma, but when the woman turned around, all she felt was . . . sadness. Deep, intense sadness. That just didn’t make any sense.

              Then there was that handy man on the second floor who thought she wanted him to ask her on a date. You know, since she stood there staring at him for like three full minutes while Henry nudged her with his elbow. Hunched over his tools, in work boots and a flannel shirt, he brought a warmth to Emma’s heart. But when he’d lifted his sandy colored head to look at her, the warmth fled just as suddenly as she shivered with the cold. As if she had been held in safe, warm arms, and now they were gone. She could almost feel someone cupping the back of her head, as if she were a little girl again.

              What was wrong with her?

              Then there was the date with Walsh when he accused her of flirting with the waiter. Emma was staring so hard at the man’s dark hair, light scruff, and bright blue eyes, she almost knocked over her glass of wine.

              “Have we met?” she had whispered, leaning over the table. Her heart had thudded in her chest and a warmth swooped low in her belly.

              The waiter had narrowed his eyes, giving her a look that clearly communicated that he was uncomfortable. “Um, no. Are you ready with your order?”

              Emma had frowned, pulling back so fast she almost slumped in her chair. The accent was all wrong. The smile, too. It should have been lopsided, and a little cocky. And he should have quirked an eyebrow at her.

              Wait – what?

              Walsh had scowled the rest of the way through dinner, even though she had tried to assure him she wasn’t checking out the waiter.

              “Something about him just seemed familiar, that’s all.”

              Her explanation had only seemed to make Walsh even more out of sorts. He had even grilled her for at least five minutes about why she felt she recognized the man. Where and when did she know a man like that? He had never seemed the jealous type before, and it pissed Emma off. It had been their only fight in the 8 months they had been together.

              8 months with Walsh. It was a record for her, actually. It was also rare for her to find a man who was so steady, both financially and emotionally. He checked all the boxes. She loved him, she really did. And yet . . .

              She had weird dreams sometimes. She couldn’t remember many details of them when she woke up, just emotions and sensations.

              Okay. They were sex dreams. Nothing to be ashamed of. But they were definitely not about Walsh. Which also wouldn’t be so bad if they were about, you know, the latest hot celebrity. But they were instead about the same man over and over, and she had the oddest feeling that it was someone she knew. She could never see his face, but she knew what his lips tasted like and knew the feel of his hand against her skin. Yes, hand. Just one. The man in her dreams had just one hand. And she felt other things: the cool brush of leather, the rough feel of his scruff against her palm (and, okay, other places). There were scents, too: rum, salt, and wet wood. When she woke up, it was like her senses were on overload.

              Emma tapped her finger against the small table as she mulled over her life. This wasn’t the time or place; she was meeting a skip. Get your head in the game, Swan.

              After all, why this angst? Her life was pretty good.

                            ***********************************************************

              The dirtbag had been easy to catch. So easy, it was almost laughable. These men were always so predictable. All they had to see was her pretty blonde picture on a dating website, and they were practically gift wrapped to her door.

              Emma leaned on the steps outside Henry’s school, sipping on her to-go cup of hot cocoa, another one in her other hand for her son. It was from their favorite coffee shop just a block from his school. He wasn’t expecting her to be there to walk home with him, and Emma was excited about surprising him. Sure enough, her kid’s face lit up with a grin when he saw her.

              “Mom! I thought you had to work late.”

              Emma shrugged as she handed him the cocoa. “The skip was dumber than I was expecting.”

              Henry paused before taking a sip of the cocoa. “Whipped cream and cinnamon?”

              Emma rolled her eyes. “Who do I look like, kid?”

              He chuckled and took a sip as Emma slung her arm around him. “Is Walsh coming over tonight?” he asked.

              Emma shook her head. “Nope. He’s got a big order he’s working on – a buffet table or something. And anyway, our big date’s tomorrow night.

              She took a big swallow of her cocoa, an inexplicable lump rising in her throat. A big date. Well, Walsh’s words had been “special night out.” Regardless, it made her nervous.

              “Cool!” Henry spoke up, oblivious to her inner turmoil. “So it’s just the two of us. Pizza and Harrison Ford?”

              “Of course. So what’ll it be: Star Wars or Indiana Jones?”

              “I was thinking we’d go Jack Ryan this time,” Henry replied, his face scrunching up like it was a serious decision.

              “Patriot Games or Clear and Present Danger?”

              “Both.” Henry’s grin was that one that made him look more like her little boy and less like the preteen he had become. She ruffled his hair, and he rolled his eyes. As they walked along, Henry fell silent, and she got the feeling he was trying to figure out how to talk to her about something. Emma waited patiently in the silence as he headed for their favorite wishing fountain and took a seat at the edge.  They sipped their cocoas for awhile, just enjoying the splashing sound of the water.

              “Mom,” Henry finally asked, “are you happy?”

              Emma cocked her head at him in surprise. “Of course I am. We’ve got an awesome apartment in one of the coolest cities in the world. I have a great job, a boyfriend, and most of all, I have you.” She grabbed him around the neck and pressed her forehead to his for a moment.

              When she pulled back, Henry groaned, “Mo-om,” but smiled nonetheless. He kept staring at her, and his intense gaze made Emma feel slightly uncomfortable. Sometimes the kid was too damn perceptive. “But you still don’t seem happy,” he finally said, “you seem . . . lonely.”

              Emma tried to chuckle, but it fell flat. “Why would I be lonely? I’ve got you.” She started to bring up Walsh, but for some reason, she couldn’t get the words out.

              Henry shrugged, staring into the fountain again. “Yeah, and I’ve got you. But I can tell you’re lonely, Mom. I mean . . . do you ever feel like you want a great big family?”

              Emma’s brow furrowed. Was this more about Henry and his own loneliness? “Hey, kid, are you okay?”

              “Yeah, I am. I just . . . I want you to be happy. And no matter what you say, I know you’re not. Not really.” Henry put out his hand. In his palm was a shiny penny. “Make a wish, Mom. Like you always have me do when we come here.”

              “Don’t need a wish, kid,” she told him as she folded her fingers back over the coin. “Now, let’s get some pizza and hurry home to Harrison Ford and political intrigue.”

              They both stood up, but as Emma started to walk away, Henry didn’t fall in step with her. She turned to see him making a wish and then tossing the penny into the fountain.

              “What’d you wish for?” she asked him as he walked to her side.

              Henry gave her that little boy grin again. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

              Emma chuckled as she threw her arm around him. “I hope you wished for an extra-large meats pizza.”

                            ********************************************************

              Emma loved Saturday mornings. Sometimes they slept late, but other mornings she still set her alarm so she could make them a big breakfast. The kind they didn’t have time for on school mornings. And though she moaned and groaned as she dragged herself to the kitchen, she secretly loved those special breakfasts.

              This morning, after their pancakes and eggs (with hot cocoa, of course), they were planning on finishing Clear and Present Danger then follow that up with Air Force One. Harrison Ford and her pajamas. It was going to be a great day. And just the relaxing she needed before her “special” date tonight with Walsh.

              Emma had just sat down with the cinnamon when the doorbell rang. Henry gave her a surprised look. “Are we expecting someone?”

              They weren’t, but as Emma rose from the breakfast table, a thrill of expectation shot through her. It made absolutely no sense, but she was eager to see who was on the other side of that door. Her mouth fell open when she saw dark hair, scruff, blue eyes, and leather. And one hand.

              “Swan. At last.”

How do I face the man that I am when my heart's still in hiding Staring me down, the days of my life that I've gotta justify Maybe I need the cracks in my skin, emotions are hard to carry Maybe I need the strength in your eyes to cut through the morning time

'Cause every day I know that I am learning And age, it ain't the only thing in life But if memory's all you have then I can't find you Beneath those eyes, yeah

Oh, maybe there's an angel

Oh, maybe there's an angel at my door Oh, maybe there's an angel at my door Standing up high, taking this light, Oh, I'm gonna see the shining Yeah, maybe there's an angel at my door Oh, maybe there's an angel at my door