The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob

by Pippa Grant

  Ingrid turns a wry smile to her. “I’m pretty sure my kids would’ve caused the same problems without him there.”

  “Then do it for me and all the times he disastrophied my house.”

  She laughs, and when I show her out the door so she can start her run to pick up her kids, I still don’t know if I should expect a houseful next time she stops by.

  Probably not.

  If I want to see her again, I get the feeling it’ll still be on me.

  And I’m okay with that.

  Especially since I still want to hang out in her loft and write songs.

  There’s always one more way to get what I want.

  And what I want is more Ingrid in my life. However I can get it.

  Seven

  Ingrid

  I’m putting Hudson to bed for the third time when I hear the girls thundering through the living room. “I want my own Skippy,” Hudson says.

  I kiss him on the forehead and tighten his Thomas the Tank Engine comforter around him. “When you grow up, you can go live in the woods and have all the Skippys you want. But right now, you have to go to sleep.”

  Sleep.

  I want to crawl into bed, finish the audiobook I started this week, and go to sleep.

  But for the first time in weeks—months, maybe?—I want something else more.

  “Mama? Can I have a drink?”

  “You already had a drink.”

  “I want a banana.”

  “You already brushed your teeth.”

  “Story?”

  “I told you five stories. It’s bedtime.”

  “Can I be a firetruck?”

  “You can be anything you want to be.”

  “Can I have a drink?”

  “Hudson. I’m walking out this door, and you’re going to close your eyes and go to sleep, or else you’ll have to eat liver and onions for breakfast.”

  He giggles.

  Something crashes in the living room, and I hear the girls whisper to each other in the panicked tones that suggest I should’ve taken the vet up on her offer to find Skippy a new home.

  Especially after she told me a story about another client who tried to keep a pet squirrel and ended up having to explain to the chief of police how one of his officers’ badges ended up in her house.

  I kiss Hudson one last time and head out of his tiny room, knowing full well we’ll repeat this routine two more times before I get to sit down with my phone and do something braver than I’ve done in years.

  “Zoe. Piper. What are you doing?”

  Our living room is basically the size of Levi Wilson’s foyer. When Grandma and Grandpa lived here, they kept a small loveseat and a single La-Z-Boy recliner in the room, along with a TV stand for their 32-inch television, which was the only thing they splurged on in their entire lives that wasn’t books or bakery treats, but Grandma liked seeing Alex Trebek in 32-inch glory every night on Jeopardy! and Grandpa liked Grandma to be happy.

  Also, they both liked one-upping each other in seeing who would’ve gotten a higher score.

  Grandpa passed away when Zoe was a baby, the result of all those years of indulging in his favorite bakery treats.

  When I moved the kids here to live with Grandma after Daniel left, we thought it would be a short-term solution. But I got invested in the bookstore again when I didn’t have my hands full with the kids, and about the time I felt like I had my footing under me, Grandma’s stroke took her from us too.

  Rather than moving the kids when Zoe and Piper were both happy at school, I redecorated a little by bringing our old sectional sofa out of storage. Portia, Griff, and I nearly couldn’t get it up the stairs. The only reason it fits is that our television hangs on the wall instead of needing a stand. And the girls are currently racing across the cushions, chasing Skippy, who’s leaping from the curtain rods to the very skinny top of the television to the bookshelves to the couch, and looping back again.

  “Skippy doesn’t want to go in his cage, Mom,” Zoe says.

  Yes, his cage.

  The vet said since he’d been inside already, he’d need special assistance adjusting to the wild, and if we wanted to nurse him until he’s old enough, we’d need to cage him when we weren’t home.

  I’m pretty sure the squirrel has brain damage, no matter what the vet said. But I swear he’s also learning the phrases peanut butter and bird seed and don’t make me call animal control, you mangy little thief.

  Which I only say when my kids aren’t around. Promise.

  And only when I find Grandma’s jewelry in his cage.

  Piper ducks under her sister’s arm, narrowly missing getting clotheslined. “He likes the bookshelf.”

  “He’s going to pee on the books on the bookshelf.”

  Both of my daughters spin and gape at me. They couldn’t be more different—Zoe has Daniel’s dark brown eyes and dark-colored hair, but my hairline and round face, where Piper got my lighter, wavy locks and lighter eyes, and Dan’s button nose and stubborn chin. They’re in matching nightgowns from last Christmas that they’re both growing out of, and when they’re gaping at me, horrified, there’s no denying they’re sisters.

  I make the sign for it’s bedtime, knock it off—it’s practically habit—then hand them each a butterfly net. “Catch the squirrel and put him in his cage, or he’s going to the animal sanctuary right now.”

  “You can’t take him to the sanctuary if you can’t catch him,” Piper points out.

  I give her a mom look, and they both leap into action. I grab my own net and join them, and ten minutes later, Hudson’s sitting on the floor in the hallway in his own nightgown, watching as Skippy gets tired of the game and darts into the cage on his own.

  I should’ve let Dr. Murphy find him a new home, but the look in Zoe’s eyes—there are some battles I can fight, and some I can’t. Or possibly won’t. Maybe both.

  My kids are strong. They survived their father leaving. They survived moving from the suburbs to Grandma Penny’s apartment, and they survived losing her. I don’t like disappointing them, but I can’t protect them from everything, so instead, I try to teach them to cope and heal.

  Zoe would’ve survived if I’d let Skippy go.

  But I couldn’t do it.

  So, yes, it’s all mom guilt at what they’re missing that’s led me to allow them to continue letting a squirrel live in the house.

  “Mom, Hudson got out of bed.”

  “Piper, is he actively hurting you by sitting there?”

  “He’s breaking the rules.”

  Here we go. “All three of you. Bed. Now.”

  Forty-five minutes later, there’s relative peace in my house, and I let my shoulders relax for the first time since chatting with Levi’s mom.

  Levi Wilson’s mother.

  I hung out with Levi Wilson and his mother.

  There’s nothing like chatting with a guy’s mother to make him seem less like a pop god and more like a regular man.

  Who wants to take me out to dinner.

  That’s insane.

  Usually, once my kids are in bed, I head straight into a book—there are so many good options—but tonight, I need something else.

  I grab my phone and dial Portia before I can stop myself. “Help,” I say when she answers. “I need courage.”

  “Honey-boo, you survived Hudson being three. You’re gonna survive him being four.”

  “Levi Wilson invited me to dinner after he showed me his abs.”

  “Hold on.” Her voice goes distant. “Griff, you got the boys. Ingrid needs me to talk her into taking a booty call.”

  “It’s not a booty call! He said he needs more friends to keep him humble.”

  She cackles. “He showed you his abs. He wants a booty call.”

  “He was technically showing me a scar.”

  “The man doesn’t have a scar on his arm or his face? He had to show you the scar on his abs? Booty. Call.”

  “He said the friend word.”
>
  “Are you fighting talking to the man because he’s famous, because you’re afraid your kids will scare him away, or because you’re not ready to get back into the world of dating?”

  “Yes?”

  “One, tell him nothing in public because your kids’ privacy is paramount. Two, he’s met your children already, so it’s not like he doesn’t know you’re a package deal. Three, if he doesn’t want the package deal, fling it up, because you’re a grown-ass woman who deserves to be treated like one, and four, talk to me. What’s wrong with dating? I don’t know how is not a valid excuse, because there is no how. We’re all special and we all do it our own way. I don’t know if I want the complication of a man in my life is baloney. If you’re not interested in him, say you’re not interested in him. Decide what you want or don’t want, then own it. You read a lot. I know you have words. Use them. Other objections? Which ones did I miss?”

  “You only had two.”

  “I had at least a dozen, and they’re the most common, and don’t start with the what do I tell my children stuff. Mommies are allowed friends, even booty call friends, and they won’t break when you quit seeing him. You’re not introducing them to a new potential daddy every night of the week, and you deserve to have a life beyond your family and your job. Your kids deserve to see that example too.”

  I flop back on the couch and stare up at the cracked popcorn ceiling. “Do you remember when I went to his concert? The one here in Copper Valley?”

  “Do I remember you and Daniel fighting because he was terrified of putting his own child to bed by himself? That might ring a bell.”

  I smile, but it’s a sad smile. “Is it weird that I regret for him that he wasn’t home more?”

  “Don’t regret it for him, boo. And don’t feel like you have to be two parents at once. You want to go to another concert, we’ve got you covered. You want to go out to dinner by yourself, we’ve got you for that too.”

  “You do so much already—”

  “You’re in my village, Ingrid Penelope Scott.”

  “You are my village.”

  “And as much as I’d love to keep you to myself, you have a hot pop star who wants to join yours.”

  “His security guards slipped me a backstage pass at that concert,” I whisper. “I swear to god, while he was singing ‘Baby Me,’ we locked eyes, a few songs later, this massive bouncer tapped me on the shoulder, got right down in my ear, and said I was randomly selected for the post-show meet-and-greet.”

  Portia goes silent.

  I know exactly how it sounds. Naïve bookstore owner thinks she had a moment with a pop star on stage and that he remembers her and wants to seduce her now.

  Except he’s come to my store twice, and when I texted Giselle to ask how he was doing, since the gossip sites seem to have totally missed that he got injured, she said he’d appreciate it if I stopped by and checked on him in person.

  Famous people don’t do that.

  I swear they don’t.

  And then he asked me to dinner. Persistently. Not like he was doing it just to be polite.

  Levi Wilson has everything. Not just money and fame, but also solid friends and family.

  He doesn’t need me. Especially not with the chaos that my life comes with. His condo wasn’t sparse and minimalist or anything, but it was stupidly neat, with the two exceptions being his guitar tossed on his couch and the water bottle that his mom put on his end table without a coaster beneath it.

  What could I possibly have that someone like Levi would want?

  “The man’s crew slipped you backstage passes and I’m just now hearing about this?” Portia asks slowly.

  I sit on my hands, because if I don’t, I’ll start talking with them too. “I was married.”

  “Backstage passes aren’t an invitation to a booty call.”

  “But if it had been, I would’ve stripped out of my nursing bra and humped him on the concrete floor, and I knew it. So I didn’t go. And you’re forgetting the part where we locked eyes over the song.”

  “Ingrid.”

  “You weren’t there. I’m not crazy. It happened. I had this sign—and two weeks later, it hit the news that he was playing a pro bono USO tour—and how do they really pick random people to get backstage passes?”

  “I don’t know, but it sounds like you could ask the man yourself, now, doesn’t it? What did your sign say? Levi Wilson, Booty Call Me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Forget the concert, Ing. Concentrate on the fact that a guy who can afford to buy you a freaking steak wants to do just that, and go have a night of fun. You name the night. We’ve got you covered.”

  “Look, it’s one thing to be a stranger in a crowd and think you have a moment with a star, because that’s what they’re paid to do, right? They’re paid to make you feel something with their music. And I do. It works. Logical me recognizes this. Say we did have a moment. Say it wasn’t in my head. He didn’t know if I was single or married. Kids or not. Straight or gay. So all he probably wanted was to make a fan’s night. But today? Asking me to dinner? Portia, he knows I’m a hot mess single mom, and he still asked. Why? I wouldn’t take me out. Why would one of the most successful superstars on the entire planet want to take me out?”

  “Tell me you don’t think this is a publicity stunt. You know if that’s all this is, I’ll kick his ass to kingdom come.”

  “What else does he stand to gain by having dinner with me?”

  “Dating you.”

  Sparkling grape juice fizzles in my veins at the idea that Levi wants me. “If being seen in public with a non-famous, everyday woman was the goal, he has local friends with normal friends who could set him up. He could find a matchmaker for the stars. He could walk into any café in the city and hit on a barista. But he not only asked me to dinner, he basically promised we’d be completely alone.”

  “Like in the serial killer kind of way?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means he’s into you.”

  Is he? It’s the question I keep asking myself. When I went to see him, he was funny and charming and attentive and just a bit of a hot mess himself. Plus, she’s right. He showed me his abs when he probably has scars elsewhere. “I keep asking myself if I’d say yes if he was just a customer who came into the shop instead of a hot superstar, and I don’t know, because I can’t picture him as anything other than Levi Wilson. You know?” Except seeing him with his mom—I think I can.

  “You turned down three customers last year.”

  “One was barely out of high school, the second was the first’s great-grandfather, and the third asked Yasmin and three other customers out before he left the shop.” All of whom were happily married and had been for years.

  “And you politely rejected our server at Easter brunch.”

  “He kept grimacing every time Hudson missed his mouth and dropped food on the floor and only asked me out after I tipped him well.”

  “And that single dad at Zoe’s school.”

  “No spark.”

  “So there’s a spark with our dear Mr. Wilson.”

  “How can there not be?”

  “Eh. He’s too skinny for me.”

  I laugh, but she’s nailed my issue.

  Self-esteem and confidence. I am not skinny. I’m on my feet all day at work, and I do the occasional yoga or high intensity workout with YouTube videos, but I’ve also had three kids and I eat their leftovers for my own lunches and dinners between dashing them around to their extra-curricular activities. I haven’t shaved my legs in months, and my eyes have permanent bags.

  “Don’t start that,” Portia says softly.

  “You know what I miss from my Army days?”

  “The chow hall?”

  I laugh. “My arms. I had the best arms.”

  “You still do, boo. And if Levi Wilson sees it, then you need to let that man take you to dinner. Provided I get to track your phone’s location and you text me every fifteen to t
hirty minutes so that we can make sure this isn’t an elaborate scheme to kidnap single mothers for government experiments to turn you into a superhero.”

  “What?”

  “One day, they’re finally gonna clue in to the fact that we women would make the better superheroes, and then we’ll be in serious trouble. Think about it. Who else can get the laundry done in the morning, work a ten-hour shift, get dinner on the table, and then swing from the rooftops for the next couple hours fighting secret alien invasions better?”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too, boo. Now go take a leap.”

  Eight

  From the text messages of Levi Wilson and Ingrid Scott

  Ingrid: I discussed your offer with my best friend in the entire universe, and since you’ve promised you’re not going to murder me and bury me somewhere that no one can find me, she wants to know if you’re instead planning to kidnap me so that the government can do experiments on me and turn me into a superhero.

  Levi: Ah, she’s mistaking me for Davis. Common misunderstanding, since he hasn’t been seen since our Bro Code days.

  Ingrid: Rumor in my part of town is that he got a new job. *gif of Bigfoot*

  Levi: And there goes my drink out my nose…

  Ingrid: Picture or it didn’t happen.

  Levi: *picture of himself raising an eyebrow on the bruised side of his face while lounging on a couch with a big wet spot on his white T-shirt* Happy now?

  Ingrid: *laughing emoji* I’m saving this to prove to my kids that I really am funny sometimes.

  Levi: Take the win where you can get it. Happy to be of service. So. Dinner.

  Ingrid: It’s a good meal. One of my three favorites.

  Levi: Ah, you’re a normal human.

  Ingrid: Or a big dork.

  Levi: No, I mean, not like my buddy Beck. He eats seven or eight meals a day.

  Ingrid: Like a hobbit?

  Levi: Exactly. His wife started naming them.

  Ingrid: She named his hobbits?

  Levi: Haha. No. She named his meals.

  Ingrid: Just checking. You’re recovering fine then? Back on screen time, I see.