by Beth Andrews
Period. No hobbies. No outside interests. He couldn’t even remember the last time she went to the movies.
People avoided her. She was uptight, anal and uncomfortable with herself, and made everyone around her feel that way, too.
Was it any wonder he hadn’t told her she’d been invited here?
The last thing he needed was his mommy hovering over him, telling him what he could and couldn’t eat, watching him from the corner of her eye, as though she was afraid he’d take one misstep and fall off a cliff. She was way overprotective and too controlling. He just needed a few hours away from her.
But it bugged him, a little, how sad she’d looked when he’d asked if he could come here instead of hanging out with her all day. How weird she’d acted when he’d left. How unlike herself.
His stomach cramped. Not from guilt. Probably something he ate. His mom was fine. She liked being alone.
If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have left his dad.
She was probably doing paperwork or reading some book about the dangers of wheat or how dairy products were causing all of America’s health woes or something else to make his life more miserable. It was better that she hadn’t come. He didn’t want her here. She’d ruin everything with her endless worries and constant nagging. He finally had friends. Was accepted into a group. They all thought he was just a normal kid.
He was normal. And he didn’t want anything, or anyone, to take that away from him.
CHAPTER SIX
BY 9:33, PENELOPE HAD zoomed past worried, had a brief visit with anger, and was now firmly in frantic mode. She paced the width of the living room, stopping only long enough to peer out the front window to the street, but there were no signs of headlights, no sound of a motor. Where was he?
She called Andrew’s phone. Again. It went directly to voice mail as had her other six calls. “Andrew, it’s me. Call me. Now.”
Chewing her lower lip, she considered her options. There was no sense calling the police—he was only half an hour late and she had no reason to think he was anything other than perfectly fine. That he was running late due to bad decision making and possibly a flat tire.
No reason except her overactive imagination and the fact that life didn’t come with guarantees of safety or good health. She wasn’t naive. Didn’t fool herself into believing that nothing horrible could ever happen to her or her child. She was a realist, one who had faced every parent’s worst nightmare and had, fortunately, gotten through it.
Because her child had lived through it. He had lived.
All she wanted was to keep Andrew safe. That was her job, the most important thing a parent could do. Protect her child. It would be a lot easier if he’d listen to her.
And come home on time.
What if something had happened? What if he’d had an accident on the way home and was, right this minute, lying in a ditch calling for help? Or had been knocked unconscious?
What if he needed her and she couldn’t get to him?
Still pacing, she tapped her phone against her mouth. She hated this feeling of helplessness. Her son was missing. She needed to spring into action, take whatever measures were needed to find him and bring him home.
Then, when she knew he was safe, she’d kill him for turning her into a living-room-pacing, cell-phone-tapping lunatic.
Headlights flashed and she rushed to the door and threw it open, only to watch as a pickup turned left and drove down the road. She slammed the door shut, the sound amping up what was becoming an impressive headache.
She was never drinking again.
Probably.
She pressed the number nine on her phone. Andrew wanted to test the boundaries? Wanted to see how far he could push her? Well, he was about to find out. No more Miss Nice Mom. She was going to file a police report, say her car had been stolen. When they found her car, they would find her son. Problem solved.
Great idea, her inner voice said in a decidedly sarcastic tone. The Shady Grove Fire Department already thinks you’re careless and can’t be trusted to light a grill. Might as well let the police department know you’re also paranoid and can’t control your son.
Perching on the edge of the armchair, she frowned. Why did her inner voice always have to be right? It was so annoying.
Okay, she needed to think this through. Chances were Andrew was fine. He’d lost track of time or, more than likely, wasn’t paying attention to it in the first place. And if the police found him hanging out at Luke’s house, safe, sound and rebellious, she’d feel and look like a fool. Plus, they might charge him with auto theft.
That she briefly considered her son getting arrested a fitting punishment for missing his curfew had her dropping her phone as if it had caught fire.
Dear Lord, she was losing her mind.
Lights illuminated the room. This time she didn’t move until the car pulled into the driveway.
She shut her eyes and sent up a prayer. Thank you.
By the time she reached the back door, Andrew was strolling toward the house, whistling under his breath—whistling, for God’s sake!—as if he didn’t have a care in the world. When she constantly worried about everything, spent most of her time weighing options, planning for the next possible disaster.
It wasn’t fair.
But then, who ever said life was fair?
She stepped onto the deck, the wood planks cold, the dampness soaking into her socks. “You’re late,” she snapped. “Where have you been?”
“Luke’s.” His tone suggested he wanted to add a duh, but thankfully, he refrained. He stepped inside, forcing her to retreat. “Why isn’t the grill covered?”
She glanced at the grill and, sure enough, it was not only uncovered, but the plate of raw turkey burgers was still on the side table. “I forgot.”
He tossed the keys onto the counter. She sighed and picked them up, hung them on the hook where they belonged.
“I thought after using it we were to always clean the grate, let the grill cool completely, then cover it,” he said in that snide tone she hated. “No matter what.”
“Funny how all of that escapes your mind when it’s up to you to cover it, but the one time I forget it’s suddenly deeply ingrained in your head.”
He opened his mouth, probably to give her some grief, then narrowed his eyes. “What happened to your face?”
She bristled. She didn’t consider herself vain, but those were words no female wanted to hear. Ever. “When I lit the grill there was a small...flare-up.”
His eyes widened. “You got burned? Are you okay? Did you go to the hospital?”
“I’m fine. It’s a minor burn.” Though it had hurt like the dickens when she’d showered, but the aloe she’d put on had helped.
“Are you sure?” he asked, sounding concerned and scared. For her. It was a new sensation, him worrying for her health and well-being. A nice one.
She unbent enough to pat his arm. Soften her tone. “I’m fine. Really. It was a stupid accident, which is why we always need to be careful when we’re lighting the grill.”
“I guess.” He tossed his sweatshirt onto a chair and pulled out his phone. “Six calls? Overzealous much?”
Overzealous? Seemed she wasn’t the only one who used their advance vocabulary words when the time was right. “You could have answered at least one of them.”
“I was driving. No talking or texting while driving, remember?”
“I highly doubt you were driving the entire time as it takes less than ten minutes to get from Luke’s to here.”
“Your first call was at eight-fifty.”
“I didn’t want you to forget to be home by nine. Which, I might add, you weren’t.”
He texted someone, not even glancing at her. “I’m not that late.”
She was so tired of this. So very, very tired of the fighting and lecturing. Of always having to be responsible, of being in charge. Of taking care of him.
To her horror, tears stung her eyes again.
“You are late. Over half an hour.” Her voice shook, but she fought to maintain control. “And after I let you go over there, the least, the very least, you could do was be home on time.”
He shifted his feet, reminding her of how, not that long ago, he’d hated getting into trouble, had hated making anyone feel bad or hurting their feelings. “Look, I’m sorry I was late, okay? We were playing Wiffle Ball and the game was tied. If I had taken off, my team would have had to forfeit.”
Playing Wiffle Ball? In the dark? Highly doubtful.
But if she asked, he’d get defensive and accuse her of thinking he was lying.
Which she did. She just couldn’t prove it. Didn’t have it in her tonight to try.
“Fine.” She stepped outside, grabbed the burgers and covered the grill haphazardly before returning, locking the door and turning off the outside light. “I’ll let it go this time. But next time something like that happens, please do me the courtesy of calling me to let me know.”
“I will.” He studied her, his mouth twisting in concern. “You sure you’re okay? Your hair looks funny.”
No kidding. She brushed her bangs to the side. First thing tomorrow morning she needed to make an appointment to get the fried ends cut off. “I’m fine.”
“I’m glad.”
Then he did something so shocking, so out of character, all she could do was stare.
He hugged her.
He hugged her.
Oh, it wasn’t a real embrace, just a one-armed sort of squeeze, but she’d take it, mostly because he’d initiated it. It was like her birthday, Mother’s Day and Christmas all rolled into one.
Except on those days she was the one doing the hugging while he silently suffered through it.
He stepped back. “Next time, be more careful,” he said, sounding so much like her she blinked.
Her lips twitched. Who would have thought she’d find a reason to smile today?
An image of Leo Montesano, all tall, dark and muscled, sprang to her mind. Yes, he could definitely put a smile on a woman’s face, but he was like the moon. All golden and bright—and out of reach. She had no business thinking of him. He was pure fantasy.
Penelope preferred to live in the real world. No surprises. No changes in direction unless she was the one doing the navigating. No trips off course or to destinations previously unknown. Some, like her ex-husband, called her negative, but she preferred to think of herself as pragmatic. Did good things happen? Absolutely. But that didn’t mean you could count on them. Better to be prepared for the worst and pleasantly surprised by the best.
“How was the picnic?” she asked as Andrew stuck his head in the refrigerator.
“Okay.” He straightened, three plastic containers stacked in his arms.
“Didn’t they feed you there?”
He set the food on the island. “Yeah. We had burgers and stuff, but they put the food away like, over an hour ago.”
“An eternity,” she said drily. He grabbed a fork, peeled open the taco salad and stuck it in, taking a healthy bite. When he went in for another round she grabbed the container. “Ugh. No. Just...no. Sit.”
He did so and she got him a plate and dished out his food. Poured him a tall glass of milk, then sat next to him.
She never got tired of watching him, her boy. Even when he hunched over his plate and shoveled food into his mouth as though afraid someone would snatch it away and never feed him again. He was smart and handsome and complicated and strong. He was the one and only person to ever truly be hers.
She was terrified of losing him.
“You know,” she said slowly, “I realize I have high expectations of you. I have them of myself, as well. I won’t apologize for expecting you to do and be your best, but I understand that it might get frustrating, having someone pushing you all the time.”
He shrugged, kept his head down. “It’s okay. I mean, yeah, it’s a pain in the a—er, the butt being told what to do all the time. But I know why you do it. I’ll do my best to get better grades this year.”
“That’s all I ask.” She wanted to ask for straight As, which she thought him perfectly capable of, but even she knew where her limits were. “I appreciate you putting in the extra effort. And to prove that, I’m willing to extend your weeknight curfew to nine-thirty—”
“Yeah?” he asked, grinning widely.
“After you prove to me you can meet the original curfew of nine o’clock for a month. If you do, and you’re not late once, we’ll extend it and your weekend curfew, too. Sound fair?”
She waited, breath held. If he thought it unreasonable, he’d explode, have one of his impressive tantrums or give her the silent treatment for days on end, using grunts as his only form of communication.
Actually, she didn’t mind that one too much.
“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “That’s fair.”
Her breath whooshed out. She smiled. Reached out to brush his hair off his forehead, but didn’t want to ruin this moment by having him flinch from her touch so she lowered it to her side. For now, sitting with him like this, no tension between them, was enough.
For now, she’d enjoy being with her son.
* * *
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Penelope looked up from her computer at the knock on her door. Before she could open her mouth, Emilia Moore, the company’s receptionist, stepped into the office.
Penelope set her eyeglasses aside and pinched the bridge of her nose. She was lucky to have found a position at Stone, Bragg and Smithfield. They were one of the more successful accounting firms in southwestern Pennsylvania and she enjoyed the work and her supervisors.
But she couldn’t get used to the lack of concern over the proper way of doing things. Such as waiting until someone actually bid you to come in before entering an office.
“There’s someone here to see you, Ms. Denning,” Emilia said, her tight white jeans leaving nothing to the imagination. Not that there was much left to imagine. The low-cut burgundy blouse bared a lot of the younger woman’s assets.
Frowning, Penelope flipped through her daily agenda. As she’d thought. Blank. “I don’t recall having any meetings this afternoon.”
“You don’t. Your calendar is wide-open,” Emilia said, her voice, as always, cheerful and bright. It was enough to give anyone a headache. “Which is awesome since you’ll want to give this particular visitor as much time as possible.”
“Why? Who is it?”
Emilia paused and Penelope had no doubt it was only for dramatic effect. “Leo Montesano.”
Penelope’s mouth dropped. Literally dropped. Worse than that, she couldn’t seem to do anything about it. Only God knew how long she sat there, jaw hanging wide open, gaping at the pretty brunette.
“You okay, Ms. Denning?” Emilia asked, her face scrunched up in what Penelope supposed passed for concern. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
Penelope finally managed to shut her mouth and even stood, though her movements were jerky. “I’m fine. Thank you.” She wiped her damp palms down the front of her skirt. Hated to admit her hands were trembling. “Did...uh...Mr. Montesano say what his visit pertained to?”
“Nope. But then, I didn’t ask.”
Of course she didn’t.
“I’m sure he just needs help with a tax question,” Penelope said, shooting for nonchalant, but suspecting she came across as slightly psychotic.
Emilia’s smile had a sharp edge. “Well, yeah. I mean, why else would he want to see you?”
Ouch.
“Should I bring him in?” she continued as if she hadn’t daggered Penelope in the ego.
And let everyone know he’s come to see her? She’d be the main topic of office gossip for the rest of the week. Her coworkers would speculate as to why Leo had come, how he and Penelope knew each other. Luckily, no one had heard about her misadven
ture with the grill. She’d like to keep it that way.
But refusing to see him would set off even more curiosity.
“Yes, please, bring him in. Thank you.”
Emilia lifted a shoulder. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” And she sauntered out in her five-inch wedge sandals, her long, shiny hair swaying, hips swinging.
As soon as she was alone, Penelope whirled, right to left, her heart racing as she looked for an escape route. There wasn’t one—unless she climbed out the window. An option she’d seriously consider if she weren’t on the fifth floor. She was trapped.
And acting like a cornered ninny, exactly the reaction she’d had yesterday when Leo had arrived at her house, sirens blaring.
The low timbre of a man’s voice reached her, grew louder from the hall. Frantic, she sat but misjudged the distance between her rear and the chair and almost ended up on the floor. Catching her balance, she straightened as Emilia opened the door fully.
“Here we are,” Emilia chirped, both hands on the doorknob behind her back in a way that thrust her breasts out quite admirably. “Can I get you anything?” she asked Leo. “Coffee? Tea? My number?”
Once again, Penelope’s mouth dropped. She felt like a ventriloquist’s dummy.
If Leo was shocked by the girl’s boldness, he hid it well. He grinned at her. “You tell your sister I said hi.”
Emilia’s sigh was a work of art, complete with forlorn expression and a full body exhalation. “Fine. But don’t think I’m going to wait for you to come to your senses forever.”
With a sharp humph, Emilia turned and walked out, shutting the door behind her. The walls started creeping in on Penelope, hemming her in.
She swallowed a burst of panic. Absurd. There was, as always, ample room in her office. It was actually quite large, with more than enough space for her big oak desk, the built-in bookcase to her right, and two leather armchairs for clients.
But somehow, today it seemed...cramped. As if there wasn’t enough air to breathe, enough room for her to simply be.
Leo’s fault, of course. He was too big with his tall, broad frame. Too male with his windblown hair and sharp jaw. He didn’t belong here. This was her domain, the place she felt most powerful, most in control.