“She’s just old-school, that’s all.” Nearing retirement, coming to the end of her career. I’m about to remind him of how life is filled with people we might not necessarily agree with when Ethan starts to giggle.
“What else?” I tip Wilder’s chin and look down into those blue eyes. Blue eyes and a troubled expression.
“She said she’d been watching me—said it real meanly, with beady, squinty eyes and everything.” Which is exactly the expression I’m looking down into.
“And you said . . .” something, obviously. “What? What did you say tell her?”
“I asked,” he mutters in truculent tones, “not told.” I send him the look, the one patented purely for parents. “She said she’d been watching me, and so I asked her if she’d learned anything.”
“Oh, and I bet she had an answer for that.”
“Not one that was very interesting.”
Roman begins to chuckle, tacitly transforming it into a cough. Meanwhile, Annie points toward the door, all wide, excited eyes as she silently mouths her plans to leave. Before I can do much else, my phone starts to ring. I pull it out and see it’s Holland.
Hells bells. I’ve already blown her off once.
“Here, talk to Aunt Holly for a minute.” I can’t speak to her now. I need to get rid of my audience first. It might not be a FaceTime call where she can read my face, but I can’t risk her using her sister sixth sense to pick up something isn’t quite right back at the homestead.
“Can I ask her to send more Scottish cookies?”
“It’s shortbread, and sure.” I shoo him away from the counter toward his favourite table but not before I hear a tinny approximation of my sister’s voice, quickly followed by Wilder’s response. A heavy sigh along with a muttered, “Please stop calling me that.” My sister insists on calling him rug rat. He’s trying to break her of the habit because he’s a big boy of seven. Which is just a tiny bit heartbreaking,
Where the hell is Jenner? I glance over the counter and squint to see if he’s lurking behind the curtain. Any minute the afternoon rush will start, but before that happens, I need to deal with the six-foot-three hunk of hot annoyance still standing at the counter, all longing looks. This time, not aimed at me.
“Stop staring at him,” I whisper softly, adding “please,” to take any sting out of my words. “I promise I’ll tell him this weekend.”
I turn to pour myself a glass of water from the pitcher, ignoring the tremor in my hand. Bringing the glass to my lips, I take a sip, not because I’m thirsty but because I need a moment to gather myself. The last thing I need is for Wilder to notice there’s anything going on between Roman and me, or for him to tell my sister there’s a man hanging around. A man who makes his momma all kinds of flustered.
“Will you go? Please.”
“You really need to.” Roman drags his gaze away from our son, and while I can’t quite make out his tone, there’s a hardness there I didn’t expect.
“You know what I’m saying, don’t you? If you don’t tell him, the whole thing will be taken out of your hands.”
Thoughts, red and pulsing, suddenly fill my head.
He would—
And I couldn’t—
How dare he threaten me!
And then I’m moving, my actions unstoppable, like stones toppling down a steep hill. Tiny water droplets scatter my thumb, the glass suddenly lighter in my hand.
Because Roman’s pretty face is now wearing the contents.
“Don’t you threaten me.” My tone is low and unyielding, but it’s just smoke and mirrors to mask reaction. My fear and my hurt. He wouldn’t, would he? Break my boy’s heart just like that. “Don’t you dare threaten me.” I press my fist to my breastbone to ease the panicked wings thundering away under there. My skin suddenly feels cold and clammy, like I was the one just doused.
Roman blinks, his lashes like inky spikes. It’s such a minimalistic reaction for someone just assaulted by drinking water. I watch as his hand rises slowly, slicking through his wet hair like he’s the star of a shampoo commercial or a Diet Coke ad as he grabs the hem of his T-shirt, pulling it up to wipe his face.
The man has abs for days. Bronzed and warm to the touch. I give myself a little shake because while there’s barely a ripple in his composure, the answering tug deep in my belly seems especially unfair.
“Are you always so ready to jump to the wrong conclusion?” Finally, he speaks! And I hate that I love that hint of lazy mocking. “Or do you just like to think the worst of me?”
Something in his tone causes me to glance over my shoulder. I find Jenner standing there, doing what I said he’d do. Listening in. And looking highly titillated.