Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
“C-Coffee. To go.”
“Well, that’s a shame.” I tilt my head coyly. “You don’t want to keep me company? Just for a little while?”
“Honeybun, do you have a crick in your neck?” Jenner calls across the space.
I send Drew a sweet smile, then another Jenner’s way. His is more murderously unhinged.
“Jenner, why don’t you come on over and make Drew’s coffee to give us a minute to catch up.” Or, in other words, come and make Drew’s coffee so it doesn’t become super obvious that I can’t remember what he drinks because that is not the vibe I’m going for right now, and I have plans.
“Can I offer you something sweet?” I ask, ignoring the drag of Jenner’s chair and the cough/barf sound he makes.
“I really just need a coffee to go.”
“You don’t have a few minutes to spare?” I know if I glance Jenner’s way, he’ll be looking at me as though I’ve sprouted another head because this sweet-talking tone does not belong in my register. I didn’t even speak to Wilder like this when he was a baby, preferring to speak to him like he was a real human. “You know, Annie delivered the most delicious cake yesterday.” Come on, Drew. Who doesn’t love cake? Also, see my smile? It’s textbook winsome. Circa 1860.
“Okay.” Drew nods. Finally! “I-I have a few minutes.”
I was worried for a minute there I’d have to bring out the big guns, which, according to Jenner, is the bend and snap.
“Great! Go on and take a seat, and I’ll bring it on over.”
Drew is a nice man, the kind you can take home to your mother, though not my mother. My mother would eat this sucker up and have his wallet and the keys to his truck in her hand before he could even say, pleased to meet you. But he liked me enough to ask me out on a date—several times. I guess I was flattered because we had coffee one afternoon, over in Bay Town so as not to make it a thing. Next, we went for lunch, then for dinner. And that’s where it ended, on my doorstep that night when he tried to kiss me. It felt so very wrong. The conversation that followed was, it’s not you, it’s me. And it was very true because it wasn’t flattery that prompted me to accept. I guess I’d worried I was losing my identity; would I only ever be known and loved as a mom? I decided that night being Wilder’s mom was all I’d ever need.
As though lavender marionberry cake will somehow absolve me of my carelessness with Drew’s feelings, I place an extra-large slice on the table and slide into the seat opposite him.
“So what’s new with you?”
“I finally got the new boiler in,” he says, grasping the fork.
“You did? Well, that’s great. You must be nearly ready to move in.”
“Moved in last week,” he adds shyly.
I know. I heard that from someone or three already.
Small towns = no secrecy. Which would explain the fascination in this town with who Wilder’s father could be. Something they’ll find out soon enough.
“That’s great!” I tap my fingers over his, genuinely happy for him. His renovation of an old farmhouse has been plagued with nothing but problems.
“I’m still living on pizza and cold cuts. At least until the kitchen is in.” Fork poised, he begins to dig in.
And bingo.
“Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight?” I know, I know, but I promise there’s a method to my madness. I’d suggested Roman should come at eight thirty this evening to make sure Wilder was already sleeping. Nothing to do with the opportunity for any nocturnal activities. If I serve dinner for six, eight thirty would mean Drew would still be there but getting ready to leave because he’s too polite to stay late, especially on a school night. And Roman, well, hopefully, he’ll get the message.
Kennedy is not interested in any more of your kisses.
I look up with a bright smile, and whatever I was expecting from Drew, it was not the look he’s currently wearing. Which is kind of like suspicion. “Is there something wrong?”
“Kennedy.” He sets his fork down and reaches for the paper napkin and wipes his mouth. “Why would you invite me for dinner?”
“Because you don’t have a working kitchen?” I dip my head, tracing a whorl in the wooden tabletop. “And because we’re friends.” His frown has deepened when I look up again. “Aren’t we?”
“You know, I hoped we could be more than friends once, but that didn’t seem to be something you were interested in.”
My stomach knots itself with the precision of a kinky sailor. I don’t want to hurt him—I won’t hurt him—but I need to protect myself and my son.
“Drew, just come for dinner. It doesn’t have to be a thing, does it?”