Sexton Brothers Box Set

by Lauren Runow

  “You’re not a boy, Mom. Dads are boys.”

  “Really? I didn’t notice.” I tuck him in up to his neck and give him a kiss on each cheek, his nose, and his forehead. “I promise this will all make sense someday. Until then, I want you to focus on all the great men you have in your life.”

  “Like Grandpa Mason.”

  I sigh with a nod. “Yes. Like Grandpa Mason. Good night, Charlie. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  I turn on his nightlight, switch off the ceiling light, and leave the door propped open just a little. Another day, and I feel like I’ve done the best I can as a single mom.

  Ever since Charlie was born, I’ve found myself second-guessing every decision I make. Am I providing a good enough life? Was living with my mother all those years good for him? Should I have moved away from her to try to make it on my own? Is he getting all of his vitamins? Does he have clean underwear? Does he really need the chicken pox vaccine even though generations of kids suffered and lived through the very disease?

  I swear, it’s a vicious cycle of self-doubt that, once I lead down a certain train of thought, I get so off on a tangent that I then retrace my thoughts to figure out how I ever got to what I was thinking about.

  While I’ve been plagued with sleepless nights, an unbalanced checkbook, and days where I just don’t know what to do, there’s one thing I’ll never regret—and he’s sleeping in Lego pajamas in his Superman bed.

  With a smile at the thought of my sweet red-haired boy, I walk into the hallway and grab a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt from my closet. I change, toss my hair up in a bun, and scrub my face in the bathroom.

  I’m in the living room and sprawled on the couch with a deep-cleaning face mask on and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked FroYo on my lap as I flip through the channels. There’s a Tudors marathon on TV, and I don’t hesitate to stop and get my Henry Cavill fill for the night, especially when it’s season one and he has a shaved head and that cocky attitude. Yes, this is how twenty-four-year-old women party on Thursday nights. Black mask on face, spoon in hand, historical fiction on the screen.

  Henry Cavill is just about to get it on with the King of England’s sister when my cell phone chimes from beside me on the couch. I pick it up to see a text from Bryce.

  Did you know, if a female ferret doesn’t have sex for a year, she’ll die?

  I laugh, typing before I even think twice.

  Well, thank God I’m not a ferret.

  Once I hit Send, realization hits me. Hard.

  Shit, why did I just basically tell him I haven’t had sex in a year? Six years to be exact.

  When we saw each other at the coffee shop, I had no intention of contacting him. Then, when he sent the tree, it only seemed right to send a thank-you. I mean, Kathleen Clarke raised a feminist, but she raised a proper feminist with manners.

  What I wasn’t planning on though was the banter. Texting with Bryce has been a fun outlet for me—one I didn’t know I’d enjoy so much. And I must say, he’s rather charming when he’s just words on a screen.

  Do you like egg rolls?

  Is this a sexual question?

  No. Should it be? You pretty much just told me you’re celibate …

  I’m not celibate.

  I have fish balls.

  TMI, Bryce. T-M-I.

  Why don’t you let me in?

  It’s just not a good time in my life right now.

  I hope you can understand that.

  No, I mean, physically let me in. I’m out front.

  I jump up from the couch and race to my window. There, in the shadow of a streetlight, I see his Tesla sitting across the street from my apartment.

  There’s a knock at my door. I turn to the sound and stare at the closed door, only to hear the faint knocking one more time.

  I’m standing here, frozen, in silence.

  Bryce is outside my door.

  Why is he outside my door?

  Why am I standing here, wondering why he’s outside my door?

  Tiptoe running up to the peephole, I look out to see his damn face looking handsome, even through the distortion of the glass. His suit coat is gone, his sleeves are rolled up at the arms, and he has a brown paper bag in his arms.

  Did you just come from work?

  He pulls his phone out of his pocket and then looks down at his attire.

  Are you going to stare at me all night or let me in?

  Shit. I bang my head on the door and wonder what in the world is the right thing to do at this moment. I told him I didn’t want to see him, yet here he is, standing outside my apartment. Then again, I did instigate our little text chain, so I probably gave him the wrong idea.

  Maybe I was giving him the right idea. Perhaps I secretly wanted him to not give up.

  This is what happens when you swear off men for six years. You end up with the flirting habits of a sloth.

  I bang my head again.

  Are you okay? I hear banging.

  Pulling up my metaphorical big-girl panties, I unlatch the security bolt and open the door, only to see Bryce Sexton—all six feet three inches of him—holding a bag of what looks and smells like Chinese food.

  “Hi,” I state with a surprised expression.

  He, on the other hand, has a devilish smirk. His eyes roam over my face, looking slightly bewildered.

  Touching my cheek, I feel the dried-up face mask. “Oh God,” I say, realizing I have a black glob from hairline to chin.

  “It’s a good look for you,” he says, grinning.

  If I wasn’t so embarrassed, I’d stop and notice the dimple that appears on his cheek.

  “This is just … I was just settling in for the night.”

  “I can see.” He lifts the bag. “I just got out of work and stopped to pick up some dinner. Then, I realized I ordered way too much for just one person. I thought maybe you hadn’t eaten.”

  “You could have texted.”

  “I could have.” He runs his hand down his jaw. His stubble has come in from a long day at the office, and it’s ruggedly handsome.

  I shake the thought away. “How did you get my address?”

  “I have my ways.” He eyes behind me and sees the tree.

  I close the door halfway, blocking his view.

  “Did I come at a bad time?”

  “Well—”

  Before my brain processes what to say next, Charlie comes running around the corner.

  “Do I smell Chinese food?” His hair is sticking up as he rubs his eyes, not noticing the man standing at our front door.

  My focus turns back to Bryce, whose face is laced with confusion. His smile fades, and his shoulders fall.

  Charlie straddles my side and looks up at the stranger. “Mommy,” he whispers, “who’s that guy?” I look down at Charlie to tell him when his eyes widen. “What happened to your face?”

  “It’s a mask. It’s supposed to make my skin stay firm and youthful.”

  “You look like a villain from the movies,” Charlie states.

  “Charlie …” I tap at the mask on my forehead that should have come off after fifteen minutes. It’s been twenty, which means I’m on the verge of turning into a bright red Oompa Loompa. “Go to your room.”

  Charlie walks up to Bryce. “Do you have egg rolls in there?”

  Bryce looks at me and then back to Charlie, his face a mess of confusion as he looks down at his hands like he completely forgot he was holding bags of food. “Uh, yes. I do.”

  “Pot stickers?” Charlie asks.

  Bryce peers into the bag and answers, “Yep.”

  “Awesome!” Charlie tries to grab the bag from Bryce, but he pulls it back as if knowing the bag is too heavy for Charlie to carry.

  “I’ll put it on the table for you.” Bryce walks past me, into my apartment, and places the brown paper bag on the kitchen table.

  Charlie climbs up on a chair and sits on his knees, peering inside the bag, as Bryce starts emptyin
g the contents for him.

  This is all while I’m standing here with the door wide open and a mask on my face that desperately needs to come off.

  Shit. The mask.

  I close the door and then scurry down the hall to the bathroom. I leave the door open—because there is a strange man in the kitchen with my son—as I wash my face. Thankfully, it’s only a touch pink. I apply some moisturizer and fix the bun in my hair. When I look down, I realize I’m not wearing a bra.

  I glance out of the bathroom toward the kitchen and see Bryce has gotten plates from the cabinet and is making one for Charlie. I open my closet, grab a bra from one of my drawers, and rush back to the bathroom.

  Now that I look like a semi-presentable lady, I push my shoulders back and walk into the kitchen where Charlie is chewing on a pot sticker and speaking a mile a minute.

  “Then, there’s The Joker Manor. It has three thousand four hundred forty-four pieces. Mom says I have to wait a few years until I can start that one.”

  Bryce nods as he dips an egg roll into duck sauce. His tie is thrown over his shoulder. “That’s a lot of Legos for a four—”

  “Five,” Charlie corrects him with his hand splayed in the air to show five fingers. “I’m in kindergarten.”

  Bryce lifts his palm in the air. “I was gonna say fourteen.”

  Charlie smiles and grabs another pot sticker from the white container.

  I walk behind Charlie and wrap my arms around him. “Charlie, I’d like for you to meet my friend Bryce. Bryce, this is my son, Charlie.”

  “We met,” they say in unison as they chew.

  Jeez, I leave my son alone with a stranger for five minutes, and he’s on a first-name basis and breaking bread. Perhaps I need to work on the stranger-danger lesson with him again.

  I look down at Charlie, who’s stuffing his face. “You already had dinner.”

  “I’m only full up to here.” He holds his hand up to his chest. “I still have all this room to go.” His hand moves up the rest of his body, over his head.

  “That’s not how it works.” I laugh.

  “He’s a growing boy. Of course he’s hungry,” Bryce says as he pulls another container out of the bag and offers it up to me while saying, “Mom?”

  The way he says it melts my heart. He’s not saying it maliciously or in a scared way. He’s saying it with sincerity … understanding, and my heart beats a little faster.

  I wave my hand. “I’m okay. I’ve already eaten.”

  “Yes! More for me,” Charlie squeals with delight.

  “You act like I don’t feed you.” I take a seat and watch the rapport between the two of them.

  Bryce opens beef with broccoli and scoops some onto Charlie’s plate. “So, you were telling me about the Bat Space Shuttle.”

  “Oh, yeah. So, I just finished it. It’s in my room if you want to see it. I also have all of the Justice League characters and any Lego kits that cost nineteen ninety-nine or less because Mom says that’s what my budget is when we go to the store.”

  Bryce eyes me, so I clarify, “Which is a healthy budget for a gift when it’s not your birthday.” I shrug.

  Bryce turns back to Charlie. “Who’s your favorite Justice League character?”

  “I like Batman, and Mom has a crush on Superman.”

  “I do not,” I defend as I turn to Bryce. When I do, it’s to a knowing stare and the tiniest of smirks. It’s as if he’s caught me red-handed. I take a sharp breath and turn back to my son. “I don’t have a crush on Superman.”

  Charlie lowers his forehead at me. “You talk about him all the time.”

  “I don’t—”

  “All. The. Time.” Charlie makes his point.

  I lean forward and pinch his nose. “Eat your food. No more after what’s on your plate. You’re gonna have a stomachache.”

  “But I didn’t even get to see what’s in that one.” He nods to the last container that hasn’t been opened.

  “It’s Kung Pao chicken,” Bryce tells him.

  “Like kung pow?” Charlie jumps off his chair and does a karate kick.

  Bryce laughs out loud. It’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh like that—really laugh. It’s loud and boisterous. So very un-Bryce.

  “Yeah, kind of like that. It definitely has a kick to it.” Bryce leans into him. “I mean, it’s kind of spicy.”

  “Oh no, keep that one away from me. I don’t like spicy.” Charlie waves his hands in the air.

  I lean back in my seat.

  “You really aren’t having anything?” he asks me.

  I shake my head. My stomach is in knots. Why? I’m not entirely sure. The food does smell delicious. “Maybe I’ll have a bite or two.”

  He smiles, and goose bumps shiver up my arms. I make a note to grab a sweatshirt next time I get up.

  Bryce dips his fork into the chicken and holds it up in the air. “Here, try this.”

  Leaning forward, I wrap my lips around his fork. Our eyes lock on each other, and when his lips tilt up, I almost forget to slide the chicken off the fork.

  “Where’s that kick you talked about?” Charlie asks.

  I turn away from Bryce and chew quickly.

  “It’s so spicy; she can’t even speak,” Bryce replies.

  “I’ll stick to the pot stickers.” Charlie moves his hand to grab another, but I stop him.

  “No more. We’ll save them for tomorrow.”

  Charlie pouts out his lip, and I give him my best motherly stare-down.

  Bryce moves the money tree to the side and lifts the survivor bracelet off the table.

  “My survivor bracelet! Look, it has a whistle and a compass, and it’s a parachute cord,” Charlie states proudly.

  “Yes, the Boy Scout troop I sponsor actually made their own to earn badges. They brought me one that sits on my desk.”

  “I’m gonna be a Boy Scout!”

  I shake my head, making sure he doesn’t get his hopes up on something I can’t deliver. “I’m gonna look into it first.”

  “You can’t take me to Boy Scouts. I need a guy! Can’t Grandpa Mason bring me?”

  I pick at a flap on one of the containers. “Hey, women can do it all, buddy. Moms can totally bring their kids. Besides, you might not even be old enough to join.”

  “Grandpa says I am. He can take me.”

  “He doesn’t live here, and that’s a lot to ask of him.”

  “Then, who is going to take me?”

  “I will,” Bryce chimes in.

  My eyes widen at the thought. Not of him being a Boy Scout. That’s totally plausible. What I’m shocked at is the fact that he thinks I’ll send my son to Boy Scouts with him. I might find him insanely attractive, and he might be a joy to text with, but he’s still just some guy I met at a party … who stalked me at work, twice, and has now shown up at my home, and I still have no idea how he got my address.

  “You will?” Charlie asks excitedly.

  “Sure.” Bryce looks anything but sure.

  “No.” I try to stop this nonsense. “Bryce, I can’t expect you to take my son. You are way too busy, but thank you anyway.”

  “It wouldn’t be a bother,” he adds. “We’re capital sponsors to the local Boy Scouts. I’d be honored to show Charlie around.”

  “See, Mom!” Charlie nearly jumps out of his seat.

  I stand, needing to step away for a moment to breathe. “We’ll talk about this in the morning. We have to get you in bed,” I say in my motherly voice as I motion for my son to go to his room and then turn back to Bryce. “You … stay here.”

  “Ah, Mom. Really? I can’t stay up a little more?” he whines.

  I glance to Bryce before I turn back to Charlie. “Be thankful you got to stay up this late. You’ll have to get all the food out of your teeth and go brush again.”

  He stuffs one more pot sticker in his mouth. “Mmm … totally worth it,” he jokes through a mouthful.

  Bryce laughs as he reaches for a napki
n, handing it to Charlie, so he can wipe his mouth. Charlie grabs his water that was already sitting on the table, drinking a few sips before hopping off the chair.

  “What do you say to Bryce?” I ask as he walks away.

  “Thank you for the yummy pot stickers.” He heads toward the bathroom but stops short and runs back to the kitchen. “I almost forgot my survival bracelet.”

  “Come on, let’s go get you brushed up,” I say, patting Charlie on the butt and escorting him to the bathroom where we repeat his nighttime routine.

  Thankfully, Charlie has always been a good kid and goes down easily. After tucking him in again, turning out the light, and flipping on the nightlight, I rub his head a few times. Spending a few minutes by his side, I listen as his breathing slows when he drifts back to sleep.

  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to understand why Charlie wants a man to take him to Boy Scouts. He needs some masculine attention. Pretty soon, he’ll be tired of his mom being his chaperone, taking him to buy his first jock strap or discussing puberty, sex—oh, dear. There goes that worrying thing again.

  Leaving the door slightly open, I walk into the hallway and stop to see a rare sight of a man in my kitchen. I lean against the wall and watch as Bryce stands at the sink, his back to me, washing the dishes.

  The table is cleared off, and the food has been put away. His tie is still lying over his shoulder as he scrubs my plates and places them on the drying rack to the side of the sink.

  I’ve never had a man in my apartment, and I certainly have never had a man clean my dishes … especially not a man who looks like Bryce Sexton.

  Even from the back, he is a fine specimen with back muscles that flex with every dip of the sponge and glutes that tighten as he twists to grab a towel from the oven handle. His presence is overpowering on a normal day, but in my tiny kitchen, he looks like he’s larger than life.

  I walk down the hall and stop by the kitchen table. He notices my presence, so he turns toward me and winks.