“From Jeremy? No. Nothing. I’m kinda hoping he’s lost interest.”
“And I’m hoping I’ll win the next Powerball, but we both know that ain’t happening either.” She dives into the fridge, pulling out some of the ingredients for dinner before she pins me with a stern look. “All I can say is brace. I have a feeling that scumsucker is not done wreaking havoc yet.”
“Who’s a scumsucker, Grandma?” Harry walks into the kitchen, his eyes big on his grandmother.
“You wouldn’t know him,” she recovers quickly. “He’s not a very nice man, but you shouldn’t be using words like that, Harrison Berger.” She wags an admonishing finger in his face and I suppress a snort at the incredulous look on Harry’s face.
“But you said it first.”
“In sixty years, when you’re my age, you get to say it too—not before.”
He regards her with an assessing stare before coming to the conclusion that contradicting the maker of the world-famous mac and cheese, might not be a good idea. “How long ‘til dinner?” he asks instead. “I’m hungry.”
“Grandma’s barely started, and you just had a burger a couple of hours ago,” I point out.
“So? I’m hungry,” he repeats.
What I should do is tell him he can wait, but I know that will only mean he’ll be in my ear until he’s fed. “Fine,” I capitulate. “There’s a bag of pretzels in the pantry, you can share that with your brothers.”
“I want Oreos.”
“And I want a week’s vacation on a Caribbean island,” I fire back. “You’re not eating cookies. If you’re hungry, you’ll eat pretzels, otherwise wait for dinner.”
I’m not quite sure what it is he mumbles under his breath as he stomps over to the pantry, but I’m thinking that’s probably a good thing.
Jesus, I thought I had time before my baby came down with a case of attitude; it’s infectious. Three growing boys—why didn’t anyone stop me? At this rate, I’ll be slurping Baileys for breakfast before the year is out.
“Help,” I mouth at Mom when Harry disappears downstairs with the bag of pretzels. She just turns back to the grater and grins.
“You know I’d love to grill you on that handsome man this morning, but it’ll have to wait. I notice Liam hasn’t come down yet, you may want to check on him?”
A quick glance at the clock shows me he’s been up there for a good half hour. More than long enough. Suddenly worried, I rush up the stairs. I don’t hear the shower, so he’s done in there. I knock on his bedroom door.
“Liam? Are you okay?”
When there’s no answer, I push the door open to find him facedown on his bed, still wrapped in a towel. He appears to be sleeping, or at least is doing his best to make me think so.
The white-knuckled hold of his hand on the pillow is a dead giveaway.
CHAPTER 7
Dylan
“You excited, Max?” I ask my son, who is bouncing on his stool.
“Yes,” he answers emphatically. “When’s Grammy gonna be here?”
“She’s on her way, Kiddo. Hang tight.”
Easy to say, but for Max, who’s almost coming out of his skin with excitement for his birthday party, the wait is sheer torture.
He doesn’t even know Marya is on her way with the boys too. I would’ve picked her up, but she insisted on coming here, claiming it made more sense since, that way I didn’t have to worry about dropping her and the kids home again after.
I didn’t see her all week. On purpose.
The news last Saturday had thrown me for a loop. Toni Linden and I have a history I would’ve preferred to leave in the past, and hearing I’d have to be working with her starting Monday wasn’t exactly welcome.
Karma can be a raving bitch at times, and it looks like her eye’s on me.
The timing sucks, just as I was starting to feel Marya open up to me. At this point, I’m sure she’s still skittish enough she’ll take any excuse to run full speed in the opposite direction. The arrival of an ex-girlfriend on the scene, one I’d be working with for the coming three months, is a definite kink in my cable.
Call me a coward, but last night when Marya texted, asking if I was all right after not hearing from me all week, I was tempted to ignore it. I couldn’t though, not with Max’s birthday today and the commitments already made; not to mention the guilt I was already feeling. Instead of texting her back, I called because I’d missed the sound of her voice.
Call me crazy, but I don’t want the connection I feel with her—however new—to be spoiled by the aftermath of poor mistakes I may have made in the past.
Yet after talking with her, even just discussing mundane arrangements for today, I knew I wouldn’t be able to maintain the self-imposed distance. So this morning, sitting across the island from my virtually vibrating son, I feel my own excitement building.
I grab our breakfast dishes and am just about to quickly wash them by hand when the doorbell rings. Before I even have a chance to wipe my hands, Max is already opening the front door.
We live in a moderate townhouse in a neighborhood with predominantly families. It’s a fairly new subdivision, maybe twenty years old. I bought the house without much thought, other than it had to be relatively close to Max’s school, and it had to be available on short notice. This place fit those requirements.
Although I like the open concept—I can see from the kitchen straight through to the front door, where Ma and Clint are greeting Max—the place itself has little character. It’s convenient, and it fits us, that’s about it. Still, with my son’s excited chatter and the people filing in—apparently Marya was right behind my parents—it feels like a home.
“Quick, hide this in the fridge,” Marya, who slipped past the huddle, hisses, handing me a large cake box.
“Can I see?”
“Later.” Her saucy wink almost has me cover her barely-there smile with my mouth.
Yeah. Fuck distance.
Max’s three other friends are dropped off fifteen minutes later, and it takes another ten to get driving arrangements sorted. I don’t care who drives with who, as long as Marya’s ass is in the seat beside me.
Clint has an extra bench in the back, so Max and his four buddies pile in the back of his ride, and Marya with her other two boys come with me.
Harry, her youngest, chatters excitedly when we set out, his older brother mostly grunting in response, while Marya sits quietly beside me. About twenty minutes into the drive, the back seat falls silent, and I check in the mirror to see both boys slumped over, fast asleep.
“Friday night is our movie night,” Marya explains, casting a glance over her shoulder at the boys. “Last night was a Lord of the Rings marathon.” She stifles a yawn. “I would have put them to bed earlier, but I fell asleep on the couch. Woke up at one thirty and they were still at it.”
I toss her a grin. “Happens in our house too. I’m away quite a bit, and then when I get home, Max is all geared up when all I want to do is sleep.”
“Yeah. Liam is an early bird, like me, but his brothers like to sleep in.”
“Like their father?” I carefully probe, feeling her eyes on me.
“Yes,” she answers after a brief pause. “He never got out of his college habits of hitting the weekends hard. Not even after the kids were born.” She lets out a derisive huff before adding under her breath, “I guess banging whoever his squeeze at the time was wore him out.”
“Yikes.” I steal a quick glance in the mirror to make sure the boys are still out. “So not just the one?”
This time she actually laughs. “God no. Apparently, there’d been numerous indiscretions over the years.”
“And you had no idea.”
“I was run ragged looking after the kids. In hindsight, I probably didn’t want to examine his frequent late nights and absences too closely, for fear of what I might discover.” I don’t like hearing the self-recrimination in her voice.
“You were in love,” I offer, reac
hing over to give her knee a squeeze. “You focus on the best in the people you love. I know I did for far too long.”
“I was in love with the family we had created,” she corrects me. “It just took me too long to figure out Jeremy was never a part of that.” She glances over her shoulder at the boys again. “It’s always been me and the boys.”
“No one you’ve been tempted to add into the mix over the years?” Her head snaps back and the look she flashes me feels hot on my skin. I almost start to fidget in my seat when she finally responds.
“A few times, but I don’t think men exist who’d be willing to take on the whole package. Me, maybe, but three growing boys? Hell no.”
“Don’t be so quick to lump us all on the same pile,” I say softly, reaching over again. This time I take her wrist, move her hand to rest under mine on the center console palm up, and slip my fingers between hers. For a moment, it feels like she might pull away, but then her fingers curl warmly around mine.
I haven’t been this excited about holding a girl’s hand since elementary school. I thought that had been a huge stride forward in getting my hand up Ginnie Markham’s shirt—she was cursed with a D-cup by fifth grade—but Marya’s fingers entwined with mine is arguably bigger.
Her reservations around me are not exactly a secret. She hasn’t had much reason to trust men in general, and I also know she’s giving our age difference far more weight than it deserves. Lastly, she’s looking out for her kids, which is only an added attraction for me. She’s a good mother. A conscientious one who works herself to the bone to ensure they have all they need.
What she doesn’t know is that if she gives me half a chance, I would prove to her I’m not out to hurt her, I don’t give a flying fuck that she is a little older than me, and I would rather stab myself in the eye than do anything to upset her boys.
Her warm palm against mine is a start.
A very fucking great one.
MARYA
“It’s too big!”
I look over at Harry. The helmet he’d been handed is sliding off his head, almost covering his eyes.
“Here,” Dylan pipes up before I have a chance to respond. “I’ll see if they have one that fits better.” He takes the helmet from Harry and disappears back into the small building.
We’ve all been outfitted with hard hats and yellow slickers, waiting to get on the mine train to get us down the shaft. All but Clint and Beth, who opted to wait aboveground for us.
The kids are all huddled together, talking excitedly, and I catch Liam with a grin on his face. I let that sink into my skin.
The boys didn’t wake up until the road we were on turned to gravel. Up until that time, Dylan had not let go of my hand.
I’m not sure what possessed me to wrap my fingers around his, other than it felt good—real—when I’d been so conflicted after his pointed absence all week. There’d been no ambiguity in his words, or in his hand seeking out mine for that matter. Whatever had kept him away this week apparently had little or nothing to do with me.
“Here you go, kid,” Dylan says, walking up to Harry and handing him another helmet. “Try that one.” Harry throws him a grateful grin when this one seems to fit better.
“Thank you,” I mouth at Dylan when he turns my way, thinking he didn’t waste any time showing he meant what he said.
The wink that only enhances the heat in his dark brown eyes sends a tingle down my back. I don’t even know I’m catching my bottom lip in my teeth until he drops his gaze to my mouth and his nostrils flare ever so slightly.
“All aboard!”
The guide’s loud announcement breaks the spell, and the next minute we’re herding excited kids into the small train carts.
The cacophony of children’s voices bounces off the wet rock of the mine shaft, until the guide calls their attention to some abandoned gear and tools along the way, settling into a historic overview geared specifically to the boys’ age-group. Even Harry, whose voice can usually be heard above all, is listening to every word.
Tales of the three brothers who claimed the mine almost a hundred and fifty years ago, digging for the rich gold veins they believed hidden inside the mountain rock, keep the kids entertained until the train comes to a stop. A quick sidebar with the guide has him leading the pack down a tunnel, with Dylan and I bringing up the rear to catch any stragglers.
I try to focus on the tour, but am acutely aware of Dylan’s much longer strides beside me. Every so often his fingers brush mine, and I lose track of what our guide is saying.
The boys are soaking it up, their excitement cranked up when the guide stops at a display that includes an old-fashioned detonator. He’s about to launch into an explanation when I’m suddenly grabbed back by the arm and pulled into a narrow tunnel branching off the main one.
“Hey...”
That’s all I manage before I find myself quite literally pressed between a rock and a hard place: the damp tunnel wall and Dylan’s solid mass.
“Oof...” barely escapes my lips before the sound is swallowed by Dylan’s mouth claiming mine.
There is nothing tentative about this kiss. It’s a no-holds-barred, balls-to-the-wall display of barely contained hunger. A kiss that has my fingers twisting in the longish hair at the back of his neck, and my tongue eagerly participating in a wild tangle with his.
One of his hands skims under the rain slicker to the small of my back, and slips under the waistband of my jeans. His long fingers dig into the meat of my bare ass, pressing me flush against the hard ridge of his erection, and I almost climb the thick thigh he wedges between my legs.
Geezus, holy mother of balls.
I’ve never quite understood the appeal of dry-humping, until meeting the firm bulge of Dylan’s femoral muscle.
I’m lost to sensation, not even a fraction of rational thought involved in the mindless grinding, tasting, clasping of bodies. So when Dylan pulls away from me, emitting a tortured groan, it takes a few seconds for reality to penetrate.
Water dripping on my head and the damp, slightly musty smell remind me where I am.
“Shit, the kids,” I mutter, wiping pointlessly at the wet strands stuck to my forehead.
“Yeah,” is Dylan’s drawled response. I lift my eyes to find a gleam in his, despite the lack of light in the tunnel. “I couldn’t wait. Fuck.” He runs a hand through his own damp mop of hair. “Shoulda waited,” he mumbles. “Now I won’t be able to get the taste of you—the feel of you—out of my mind.”
“There you are.” We jump apart hearing the guide’s voice behind us.
“Sorry, we got lost,” Dylan replies as he turns, grabbing my hand. He pulls me along behind him, muttering, “To be continued,” to me over his shoulder.
Still dazed, I can’t quite decide the rest of the afternoon whether to take those words as a threat or a promise.
“THAT’S AMAZING.”
I turn at Dylan’s awed tone to find him staring at the cake over my shoulder. I’m pretty proud of myself. Four hours of coloring and molding fondant over the three-layer sculpted cake until it resembled Deadpool’s mask in the early hours yesterday morning, resulted in a fairly decent representation. Enough, clearly, to impress Dylan.
I’d found some soccer ball birthday candles on Amazon last week and ordered them for next day delivery.
“Do you have matches?”
“Yeah, hang on.”
I can feel him moving away. The earlier tension still crackles between us, and I’m afraid even the slightest brush will ignite us. That’s why I’d virtually hugged the passenger side door on the way home, actively keeping the boys’ excited replay of the afternoon going as a distraction.
I glance over at Beth, who’s been clearing away the remnants of the pizza we ordered on the way back. Her eyes have been closely monitoring any and all interaction between her son and me from the moment we came back up from the mine. It’s as if she could sense something changed between us. Even now, her expression is kno
wing, a slight uptilt at the corner of her mouth and one eyebrow a fraction higher than the other.
Thirty-three years of mothering and she’s clearly not lost the ability to tell when her son is up to something.
She holds my gaze and a smile forms when I feel a hand land heavy on my shoulder, startling me.
“Here.” Dylan hands me a box of matches.
It takes me three tries to get one lit with my shaking hands, almost feeling his breath at the back of my head. “Why don’t you grab some plates?” I snap, irritated with my body for giving so much away. I ignore Beth’s snicker and focus on getting all eleven candles lit.
“I’ll hit the lights and bring down the plates,” Dylan announces. “You carry the cake.”
“But it’s your—”
“You baked it, you carry it.”
He’s gone down the basement steps before I have a chance to respond.
“No changing that boy’s mind once he figures out what he wants. No use fighting him,” Beth shares sagely, before she too disappears to the basement.
Taking in a deep breath, I pick up the cake and carefully follow them down the stairs.
“Awesoooome!” Max yells when he catches sight of me.
He dives into the task of blowing out his candles the moment I set the platter on the coffee table, but it’s not until Dylan flicks the lights back on that he gets a good look at the cake. The other boys crowd around him and I soak up the oohs and aahs with a smile. More buzz from the boys when I start slicing, exposing the alternate red velvet and dark chocolate layers filled with buttercream frosting and cherry compote.
I hand the first piece to the birthday boy, who doesn’t waste a minute to shove a bite in his face. With his mouth full, he looks at his grandma and the hair stands up on my arms. It’s like I know it’s coming.
“Better than yours, Grammy,” Max announces, crumbs flying from his lips.
CHAPTER 8
Dylan
“Max, let’s go!”
I was expecting this. Because of Max’s party on Saturday, all our normal weekend chores had fallen on yesterday, and Max had already been dragging his feet. This morning even more so, but I have no time to play games. I have to get to the office.
10-Code (Rock Point, #4) Page 6