“Is my son still alive?” I absently query while I finish setting the table for lunch.
“Holding his own for now,” Camilla answers. “I’m going to have to coach him up at halftime, though. I’m not happy with his form.”
“Amanda…Amaannda,” Dev says, louder the second time.
“What?”
She raises a well-groomed brow. “Stop fondling the cake. You’re going to bruise it and I’m looking forward to having some.”
I look down at the table and realize the delicate strawberry supreme cake from Baked NYC is tilting to the side, the candles I’m carefully arranging in danger of falling over.
“Step away from the cake,” Dev orders with an edge to her voice.
The anticipation is killing me––and possibly the birthday cake, too. “What if he doesn’t show up?” I practically whine.
Dev shrugs. “Then he’s a monkey’s ass that’s been hit in the head too many times to know what’s good for him.”
I should know better than to ask Dev. “There are small ears everywhere. Maybe throttle back on the language a notch or two.”
“Do NOT call him. Let him marinate,” Camilla adds. “I love men, I really do, but they are all so sensitive. He has to think it’s his idea to retire. ”
Nodding, Dev adds, “Truth.”
“It’s been two months––he needs to do it while he’s still alive and preferably in one piece. And if he doesn’t do that soon you’re going to see me on the evening news climbing a clock tower with a high-powered water gun.” I look down at my outfit and grimace.
“How’s the outfit? Does it say desperate single mom? It does, doesn’t it?” I only spent four hours picking out the skinny jeans and dark green silk poet’s shirt I’m wearing.
“I doubt that guy”––Dev motions with her chin to the front entrance––“has ever thought you look anything less than totally fuckable.”
If she hadn’t said that guy, I’d be berating her for her language at a children’s party. As it stands, however, I can think of nothing else other than that guy.
My sharpened gaze tracks her motion and slams into the most gorgeous man on the planet. In a French blue button-down and jeans and dwarfing everyone around him, Grant stands near the front door holding a gift-wrapped box. He has his game face on, not even a hint of indifference to be found. His vivid blue eyes scan the room with single-minded focus, his face softening the minute he finds me.
An all-out blitz of love and longing comes over me, the rush so overwhelming it knocks me on my ass. I never knew romantic love could feel like this. He’s essential to my joy. And so much more dangerous to my welfare than I had originally thought. This could literally rip the feet out from under me.
Never taking his eyes off of me, he heads straight for our table and in the process catches every set of mommy eyes in the place.
“I must say, muscles have never been my thang, but he makes a woman change her mind,” Dev drawls.
“Speaking of muscles, where the heck is my husband?” Cam muses out loud.
“Parking,” I absently murmur.
“Where? In Jersey?” She furiously taps out a text on her phone.
“Hi,” he says with a soft smile when he reaches us.
“Hi,” I sigh, then look to my left and find two sets of large brown eyes on us. “Could you two busybodies excuse us for a minute?”
Both Cam and Dev look disappointed. “Oh, yeah,” says one.
“Sure,” says the other. They walk four feet away at the most. I’m positive they’re still listening.
When my attention returns to Grant, he thrusts the wrapped package into my hands. Then he grabs my face and kisses me. No hesitation. No messing around. Soft lips on mine, warm hands cupping my cheeks. And praise JC, it feels like coming home after a long horrible trip to a place I never want to visit again. The relief this triggers has me melting against him, the box between us the only thing that stops me from mauling him.
“Grant!” I hear Sam yell from the game pit.
We break apart in time to brace for impact. Sam launches himself at Grant, colliding with the side of his body. Then he wraps his arms around the big blond’s waist. And that’s when I know something is wrong because Grant grimaces––and this is a man who doesn’t grimace. Not through torn muscles or sprained ligaments or broken bones.
“What’s wrong? Where are you hurt?” Panic escalates instantly, reminding me why we broke up in the first place. All the euphoria I was riding high on a moment ago takes a nosedive down the toilet.
“I know you’re hurt, Grant. What happened?”
Sheepishly, he meets my examining gaze. “Bruised kidney.”
Sam looks up at him, his sweet face consumed with worry. “Does it hurt a lot?”
Grant smiles and brushes Sam’s hair. “Not too bad. I’ll be okay.” Unlike me, Sam is great at sussing out bullshit and his expression blatantly states that something stinks. “I promise. Don’t worry.”