“What are you doing here, Roman?” This time, my question sounds much less like a demand.
“I’m on holiday.”
“No one vacations in Mookatill,” I lie.
“Then why does someone have a holiday home here?” He turns and holds his arms wide, his reach almost spanning the walls. Those damn biceps pop, his T-shirt lifting to flash a sliver of flat, tan stomach. He just seems to fill the place. I force my gaze away. I want to know what brought him here, but I also want to know what possessed him to book a couple of nights in a place billed the damn pixie house. The size of him!
“You’re on vacation alone?” My eyes automatically slide past him to the ladder staircase to the loft-style bedroom.
“What do you think?” I think he still looks like a man who doesn’t have to spend a lot of time alone, even if he is right now. “I can show you up there if you want.”
“Not necessary,” I answer primly. I don’t much feel like telling him I was up there yesterday and put the linens on the bed he slept in. That it’s my detergent I smell on his skin.
“Suit yourself.”
“So you just happened to stumble into High Grounds yesterday.”
“Apparently. As my old mum would say, the Lord works in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform. But listen.” Barely two steps, and he’s claiming the chair opposite. “Whatever brought me here, I’m glad of it. I want to ask you a million questions. I just don’t know where to start.” His eyes shine, and it’s not just the light, but I can’t afford to get caught up in this. In him. “Seriously, it’s so good to see you.”
My hands are suddenly in his, his calloused thumbs rubbing over my knuckles. It feels nicer than it should. Nicer than I’ll admit.
“I wish I could say the same.” I swallow, hating that I said that, but he needs to understand I’m not the same girl I was back then. I pull my hands back, dropping them to my lap. It would be a mistake to let him keep touching me, even if I regret the change in his expression.
“Yeah. I get that.” He leans back in his chair. “It’s obviously been a shock for you, too. Who’s looking after Wilder now, by the way?”
It’s a shock hearing my son’s name from his mouth, and I think I panic.
“He’s at home. Someone’s got to keep the meth factory running.”
“I wasn’t—”
“He’s not home alone,” I retort, not sure why I’m being such a bitch.
“I’m not suggesting anything, Kennedy. Please don’t think that I’d do that.”
Okay, crazy lady. Breathe and dial it down a notch . . .
“He’s at his soccer game,” I say in a milder tone. “With Ethan, his friend.”
“He plays soccer?” Before me, Roman physically lights up.
I nod. “He has practise after school on Tuesday and a game most Saturdays. His best friend’s mom and me, we alternate weeks.” Us single moms with hectic lives and work schedules need to help each other out where we can.
“Does he like it? Soccer, I mean?”
“Yeah, he loves it.”
“What else?” he says eagerly. “Tell me something else he likes—tell me anything.” There’s a fervency to his questions, and I can almost hear his longing.
“He likes pizza.” I wrap my hands back around my cooling coffee, my smile kind of automatic when talking about my boy. “And he’s obsessed with Minecraft.” I look up and find Roman’s expression softly echoing my own. It’s kind of scary. “Minecraft is a computer game,” I add in explanation.
“Yeah, I know Minecraft.”
“He loves Legos and drawing, chocolate ice cream, and forgetting to do his homework.”
“A typical boy, then.”
“Seems so.” My shoulders twitch with a shrug. Truthfully, he’s the only boy I’ve ever really known. I didn’t have a dad or brothers, and I’ve no cousins. Or at least, none that I know of. I felt totally unprepared to care for him. “My whole pregnancy, I was sure I was carrying a girl. When they handed me this clearly male baby, I was kind of terrified.” I added a laugh to lighten my words, but really, I was terrified.
Wilder was my wild card.
“Well, you must’ve learned pretty quick ’cause he seems like such a good kid.”
“He’s the best. Funny and loving and sweet.” I push to fight this prickle of tears, not daring to look at Roman in case I see the same. “He’s a good kid and a good friend. He’s watchful and sensitive, so you need to be careful what you say around him. He thinks an awful lot and feels more than seems fair.”
“Matty is a bit like that,” he says with a smile. “He’s the spit of him, too.”
“Matty?” Other kids? My stomach cramps. I’d thought about the possibility but in some vague, not happening way, but that Wilder might have—