Perhaps some of it was my own fault. I wasn’t exactly a sweet Southern belle when he called, but damn him. I wanted to hear the rest of the story. I needed to know what happened next. He exacted his revenge by leaving me high and dry. The man clearly is no amateur, and this most definitely isn’t his first rodeo.
This is why I won’t screw around with younger men.
They fuck your mind.
And they play games.
And I’m too old for games.
I don’t have the energy for games. I have a house to maintain. Boys to raise. A twenty-four-year-old boss to kiss up to.
Ha.
Grabbing the remote from the coffee table, I scroll through the channel listing and settle on a Lifetime movie about a psycho nanny because I’m feeling like a classy broad tonight. No sooner do the opening credits roll when I get a text alert on my phone. Sitting up, I slide the phone across the coffee table and bring it close.
NATHAN: DASH HAD AN ACCIDENT. MEET ME AT THE GRACETOWN EMERGENCY ROOM.
My heart leaps into my throat, my face flushing and my thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind, going every which direction. Scrambling off the couch, I run toward the kitchen, tossing my phone in my purse and yanking my keys off the hook by the back door.
A minute later, my eyes fill with hot tears that cloud my vision, and I’m starting the engine of my SUV and punching the garage door opener in the visor above my head. Only when my right foot presses into the brake pedal do I realize I’m shoeless.
Quickly checking my backseat, I spot a pair of Dash’s baseball cleats. They’re smelly and mud-covered, but he’s got big feet, and I’m willing to bet they’ll fit. I’ll slip them on when I get there. Seconds later, I’m tearing out of the driveway, burning rubber down Sycamore Street and trying to remember how to get to the Gracetown ER. My boys are never sick. They never get hurt. I pride myself on ensuring they’re the healthiest, most accident-free boys this side of the Mississippi.
White-knuckling it the entire way, I find a few signs and follow them to Gracetown. By the time I arrive, I have zero recollection of the drive there. Veering into a close parking spot in the front row, I almost forget to shift into park before I shut off the engine.
A minute later, I’m run-walking toward the sliding doors with the bright red letters that read EMERGENCY above them. My stomach is twisted and my throat is dry. I can’t breathe. I can’t swallow. I can’t think.
The clip-clomp of the baseball cleats on my feet annoy the ever-loving fuck out of me, but I try to tune them out. I’m sure I look ridiculous. Cleats. Yoga pants. Neon orange runner’s tank top. Hot purple sports bra underneath. Zero makeup. Thick librarian glasses. Hair piled into a messy knot on top of my head.
But none of that matters.
I have to find my son.
I approach the check-in desk and I’m met with a tired stare from an overworked receptionist.
“May I help you?” she asks, her words robotic.
“Yes,” I say, panting. “I’m Maren Greene. Dashiell Greene’s mother.”
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink.
“He’s here. My husband – my ex-husband – said he’s here. I need to see him. Where is he? I need to go to him.” My words are frantic, but not nearly as frantic as the uncontrollable rate at which my heart is pounding in my chest.
The receptionist yawns, then slowly reaches for her computer mouse, squinting at the screen before her.
I wait, unable to stand still and left cleat tapping on the tile floor. Glancing around, the room is full of people waiting, some half-asleep, some clutching appendages, others staring dead-eyed at the TV mounted in the corner and tuned to some sports channel.
My fingers drum against the counter and I stare at the receptionist harder, as if that’s enough to make her move a little faster.
“What was the name again?” she asks, tongue clucking as she talks.
“Dashiell,” I say. “Two Ls.”
She types his name with her two pointer fingers and squints harder at the screen. “I’m not seeing anything.”
“D-A-S-H-I-E-L-L,” I say slowly, enunciating each letter with perfection.
“Oh.” The woman lifts her hand to her lips. “I wasn’t putting the I in there.”
“The I is silent,” I say.
She types it in again and then shakes her head. “Still not seeing it.”
“Oh, for the love of God.” I rest my palm across my forehead, chin tucked and muttering under my breath. “Greene has an E on the end.”
“Is there a problem here?” A man’s voice asks from behind me. The take-charge boom in his question makes the receptionist sit up straighter. I watch her eyes go to him, and I pull in a hard breath, turning around to see who my knight in shining armor might be.
My eyes lock on his first, and everything around me stops for a few endless seconds. Dark lashes frame amber-green irises, and his jawline stretches into a tight curve.
“Maren,” he says. “I thought that was you.”
My heart thunders, drowning out my thoughts, making me forget why I’m here.
“Dante.” I say his name like we’ve met before, like we’re old friends. I didn’t see him up close that night, at least not this close, but I know it’s him. And I know his voice. I know how capable it is of giving me goosebumps and sending my body into a tightly wound, dog-in-heat frenzy with just a few dirty sentences.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“My son . . .” I start to say. “He’s here. I’m just trying to find him.”
Dante’s dark brows furrow as he glances past me, stare trained on the receptionist. “This woman needs to find her son. Is there a reason he’s not coming up in your system?”
“I think she’s spelling his name wrong,” I mutter under my breath.
He steps past me, reaching down to the woman’s desk and helping himself to a pen emblazoned with the hospital’s logo and a Post-It note covered in the Xanax logo, which is crazy because I could really use one right now.
“Here,” he says, handing them to me. “Write his name down. I’ll wait here until she finds him in her system.”
The receptionist tucks her poufy, gray-blonde hair behind her ears and yanks the paper from my hands when I’m finished. She types quicker this time, her expression softening a moment later.
“He’s in room thirty-two,” she says.
“There.” Dante smiles, and I feel the warmth of his palm on the small of my back. For a moment, I wonder how long it’s been there. Everything feels pretty surreal right now, and I’m struggling to exist at the moment.
Sensory overload.
“Th-hank you,” I sputter out, searching for the doors that will lead me out of the waiting area and closer to my son.
Dante nods, hands hooked on his hips. Everything’s a bit of a blur, but in the slivered seconds that pass, I see he’s dressed in slim gray slacks with a skinny black belt and a white button down. He smiles a half-smile, his eyes holding steady on mine.
I don’t have time to ask why he’s here or if he’s okay. I assume he’s okay. I mean, he looks okay.
Dashing down the hall, I find myself standing outside room thirty-two a short while later, and I spot my oldest son’s familiar foot, bare, and sticking out from a white hospital blanket on a rolling hospital bed.
“Oh, god,” I say, clutching my chest and rushing into the room. “Nathan, what happened?”
Glancing at my son, he wears a solemn expression. His dark eyes move between his father’s and mine. He looks okay. He’s alive. He’s awake. Those are all good signs. I scan him from head to toe, stopping when I see a giant icepack on his left ankle.
Oh, thank God.
“Dash, care to tell your mother what happened tonight?” Nathan takes a stern tone with our son, but I know it’s all for show.
Dash licks his lips, head cocked to the side and eyes filled with shame.
“What happened, baby?” I ask, taking a seat on t
he side of his bed. I take his hands in mine, which are officially the same size as mine, if not slightly bigger. When did they get so big? I comb his dark waves from his face and lean in closer. “Tell me.”
My son glances at his dad again and then back to me. “Beck was in my room. And he took my iPad. And so I kicked his door down. And then he chased me down the hall, and I jumped over the railing. I meant to land on the sofa, but I missed. Landed on my left foot instead.”
Nathan chuckles. “Boys will be boys.”
“And where were you during all of this?” I snip, turning to him and gifting him a glare.
He lifts his palms flat in the air. “Jesus, Maren, they’re not babies.”
“Right. They’re kids. And they’re boys. And they need to be supervised.” I release an audible groan, turning back to my baby. “This never would’ve happened at my house.”
“Here we go,” Nathan mutters.
“Where’s Beck,” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“At home, with Lauren,” he says.
“Is he in bed?” I check the clock on the wall. It’s almost nine-thirty. “He should be in bed.”
“I. Don’t. Know.” Nathan doesn’t hide the irritation in his tone.
“These boys need structure and supervision and rules,” I say, teeth gritted. This is the Mama Bear in me rearing her unapologetic self. Once she comes out, it’s damn near impossible to put her back in her cage.
“Mom.” Dash gives me a pained look, and I snap out of it. But only for him. I hate seeing him hurt and knowing it could’ve been prevented.
“I’m sorry, baby.” I rub the top of his soft hand, leaning in and giving him a kiss on the forehead. “How are you feeling?”
“It hurts,” he says. “But the ice helps.”
“Have they done x-rays yet?” I ask him.
“No,” Nathan answers. “They’re coming to get him soon.”
“Mom?” Dash asks, brows raised.
“Yes?”
“Are you . . . are you wearing my cleats?” he asks, mouth twisted as he stifles a grin. It’s good to see him smile. It soothes my Mama Bear heart.
Glancing down, my shoulders slump and I laugh through my nose. “Yeah. Yeah, I am, Dash. Is that okay?”
“Alrighty, we’re ready for you, Dashiell,” a nurse announces from the doorway. She pads into the room and brushes the white privacy curtain aside. “Let’s go take a look at that ankle, shall we?”
“I’ll be right here when you get back,” I say, kissing the tips of my fingers and waving as he’s rolled away.
Nathan gives Dash a nod and then retrieves his phone from his pocket. I’m sure he’s about to text Lauren and give her an update, like Lauren somehow gives a flying shit about Dash’s ankle.
Flinging my bag over my shoulder, I head to the hallway in search of a vending machine. Dash loves Snickers bars, and if I can find one for him, it might put a smile on his face when he gets back.
Granted, I probably shouldn’t be rewarding him for doing a bone-headed thing, but I feel like a broken or fractured ankle is punishment enough. And I still blame Nathan. He should’ve been watching the boys, not giving them free rein of his ridiculously oversized McMansion.
Clomping down the tile hall in my cleats, I spot a slew of vending machines at the end. Fishing in my purse as I walk, I retrieve a dollar and some change and begin my search for a Snickers bar the second I approach a snack machine.
“D7,” I mutter to myself, inserting the money and pressing the buttons. The bar releases and drops with ease, and I swipe down to grab it, feeling like Mother of the Year for all of two seconds. A pair of shiny black dress shoes catch my eye as I’m crouched down, and a lump catches in my throat. Rising, I release my held breath when my eyes find his. “Dante.”
“Maren,” he says.
And God, I love the way he says my name. It’s all deep and throaty, inherently. Not forced. Primal almost.
“Hungry?” he asks.
“It’s for Dash,” I say with a smile. I push my glasses up my nose and remember exactly what I look like. My cheeks warm. I’m a confident woman – most of the time – but looking like a slob in front of a man who looks like a million bucks throws me off my game a little. I’m only human.
“How’s he doing? He okay?”
“Yeah, he’s fine. Thank you. Hurt his ankle fighting with his brother.”
Dash’s lips, which I’m now noticing are soft and full and framed with a hint of a five o’clock shadow, curl up at the corners. “I know how that goes. Grew up with a whole houseful of brothers. We practically lived at the ER.”
“What about you?” I ask, head tilted slightly. “Everything okay with you?”
His smile fades and his amber-green eyes roll. “Yeah. My kid brother decided tonight would be the perfect night to get in a bar brawl with some juiced-up asshole who said something he didn’t like.”
“Is he okay?”
Dante nods. “Oh, yeah. Broken nose. It’ll get reset. He’ll have a good shiner or two for a few days and then he’ll be on his way.”
I spot movement from the corner of my eye, just past Dante’s shoulder, and I glance up to see Nathan standing a few doors down, watching the two of us. I try not to smile, but it secretly pleases me to see him so curious.
There is a karma god, and tonight she’s pulling favors for me.
Nathan continues to stand there, staring and unmoving, face pinched, cell phone frozen in his hand mid-text.
“I better get back to the room. Told him I’d be there when he comes back. Hope everything goes well with your brother.” I give Dante a gracious smile and squeeze past him, clomping away in my son’s muddy, stinky cleats like a boss.
If that man wanted to fuck me before, I’m sure as hell he’s changing his mind at this very moment.
Oh, well.
It was fun while it lasted.
I pass Nathan on my way back to Dash’s room, and he follows me wearing this stupid, dumbfounded look on his face.
“Who was that?” he asks as soon as we step in, just like I knew he would.
Biting a smile back, I answer him with a simple, “Just someone I know.”
Nathan shoves his phone in his pocket and takes a seat in a guest chair, studying me. “Yeah? What’s his name?”
“Is that really important?” I let my voice trail into a sensual sigh.
My ex clears his throat and sits up straight, eyes glued to me. “Yeah? How’d you two meet? You do, uh, you do that dating app? Swiper or whatever it’s called?”
“Through Saige,” I say. It’s a half-truth, so it’s not a total lie. I feel zero guilt seeing how he lied to me like crazy during the last couple years of our marriage.
Nathan laughs an arrogant laugh, like he finds it hilarious that I’d talk to someone Saige recommended. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. Greene men are bred to be arrogant, I’ve come to learn over the years. And they think they’re smarter than everyone. Nathan’s father is the same way. His older brothers too. It’s why I’m making damn sure my boys favor their Cuban side when it comes to personality.
I want them to be humble. Hardworking. I want them to value family. To make good decisions that benefit everyone and not just themselves.
Nathan never used to be a selfish prick. Somewhere along the line, he sort of evolved. I guess he grew into the man he was always meant to be and that was the beginning of the end of us.
“Okay, we’re back,” Dash’s nurse wheels his bed through the door. “Good news. It’s only a sprain. He’s a very fortunate young man.”
“Oh, thank God.” I clutch my heart and go to his side as the nurse locks the wheels of his bed. “Dash, Jesus, don’t ever do that again.”
Dash gives me a relieved half-smile and nods. “I won’t, Mom.”
“I’m going to have a talk with Beckett about not stealing your things,” Nathan says, like he’s all of a sudden trying to win some parenting award. “You tw
o need to get along better. You used to be close. What happened?”
I want to tell him the divorce happened. Their lives were turned upside down. They’re clearly acting out, and this is a cry for help, but I’m sure he’ll brush me off and tell me they’re just being boys.
“Got you something.” I produce the Snickers bar from my pocket and hand it over. Dash’s face lights up.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“You’re welcome, baby.”
“We’re going to wrap his ankle,” the nurse says. “You’re going to want to RICE. Rest, Ice, Compress, and Elevate.”
We listen to Dash’s discharge instructions. Or rather, I listen. Nathan keeps checking his phone and pretending to be tuned in. A few minutes later, the nurse brings a wheelchair around and tells Nathan to check him out at the east desk.
“You going to be okay, sweetie?” I brush Dash’s hair from his face again. I love treating him like a baby. I rarely get the opportunity. The older he gets, the less cool it is to need your mom for anything beyond clean clothes and hot meals and a lift to your friend’s house.
“Yeah, Mom. Go home. I’ll be fine.” He sits up in his wheelchair, and for a fraction of a second I see a young man and not a little boy. He’s so tough. And strong. And I love him so much my heart hurts. I wish I was the one taking him home tonight.
“All right. I’ll see you in a few days,” I say, blowing him a kiss, which turns his cheeks two shades past scarlet. I totally embarrassed him in front of all these hot nurses, and that makes me chuckle.
Making my way to the parking lot a few minutes later, my cleats scuff and drag across the blacktop pavement. I fish for my keys and hit the unlock button, watching my headlights as they flash twice.
The gentle tread of footsteps behind me pulls my attention, and from the corner of my eye I see the outline of a man walking a few steps behind me. Turning to get a better look, I fight a smile when I see who it is.
Slowing down along the sidewalk in front of the parking lot, I say, “Almost feels like you’re stalking me.”
I hear him laugh, it’s a gentle huff of a laugh. “It would appear that way.”
The headlights of a black sports car parked two spots down from mine flash.
Priceless (An Amato Brothers/Rixton Falls crossover) Page 50