Just Let Me Love You (Judge Me Not #3)(18)

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well.” She blows out a breath, and then surprises me when she says, “I have to say I think you may be the best thing that has happened to my son. He’s a little high-strung at the moment”—he’s high-strung? I almost blurt out—“but overall, he seems…different around you.”

“Oh?” I raise a brow, curious as to her perceptions. “How does he seem different?”

Abby taps a pink manicured nail to her chin in a thoughtful manner. “Chase is definitely calmer than he was a few months ago,” she begins. “And, despite his irritation with me a few minutes ago, he seems more grounded.”

Okay, so this woman is not completely flighty and unaware. She’s perceptive when it suits her, or so it seems.

I relax a bit.

She relaxes too, and after a few more minutes of idle chit-chat, Abby asks me to accompany her to the kitchen.

“Come on,” she says, turning and beckoning. “You can help me get dinner started.”

I’d much rather head upstairs to make sure Chase is all right, but what can I do? Should I tell Abby no? I don’t think that would be prudent since I’m staying in her house, so I keep my mouth shut and follow her to the kitchen.

When we start prepping for dinner, I discover something new about Chase’s mother—she’s quite bossy.

She hands me three large, ripe tomatoes and says, “Here, chop these up. Finely chopped is what I prefer. I don’t like my tomatoes too chunky.”

“Okay, then,” I say. “Finely chopped it is.”

I barely get my response out before Abby is talking right over me. “Now put them in the salad when you’re done.” She pushes a big wooden bowl she’s just filled with a bagged salad down the counter to me.

Eight minutes later, Abby is at the stove, frying chicken. “Kay,” she says, “can you come over here and turn these chicken breasts for me? I need to run out to the back patio for a little air. It feels stuffy in here.”

I think it feels fine in the house, but I nonetheless set the salad aside, and say, “Yeah, sure,” as I step over to the stove.

When the chicken is just about done, Abby returns. She takes over at the stove, and I get a whiff of cigarette smoke from the deep-rose sheath dress she’s wearing.

Hmm…

Chase suspected his mother had not given up smoking. Guess he was correct.

Abby leans away from the stove, frying oil spattering in her wake. She turns down the heat while opening a utility drawer with her other hand. From the drawer, she removes a small bottle of perfume and sprays a little on the tan skin of her wrist, and then on the dress.

“What?” she says as she catches me watching her. “I smoke when I’m stressed, okay?” She brandishes the perfume bottle. “This hides the odor from Greg.”

I quickly turn away. Raising a hand, I say, “It’s not my business.”

“Perhaps not,” she replies slowly. “But there’s one little problem… Chase also thinks I quit.”

“Hmm,” I murmur.

In a low, conspiratorial voice, Abby says, “I’d like to keep it that way, Chase thinking I quit. I mean, if that’s okay with you, of course.”

Oh, no, I am not going down that slippery slope of keeping secrets from Chase for his mother.

She must see hesitation in my expression, as she quickly amends, “You know what, just forget it. I’ll tell him the truth myself and just get it over with.”

“That would probably be best,” I mutter.

Ten minutes later we are all seated at the dining room table. Chase is freshly showered, hair unkempt and damp. Damn, he looks good every second of every day. How does he do that?

I smile, thinking, that man, he sure is a stunner.

Chase is wearing a dark-gray T-shirt—one with an old band name on it—and faded jeans. He works the jeans-and-tees look oh-so-well, like he’s ready to star in some hot male model spread. And here I sit in the same desert-dusty jeans and V-neck tee from earlier. Suffice it to say, I don’t look nearly as good as Chase.

Oh, well, he loves me anyway.

As if to accentuate that point like he’s reading my mind, Chase smiles over at me and mouths, “You look beautiful.”

I just roll my eyes and laugh.

When everyone is settled, dinner commences.

I watch as Greg picks up the salad tongs and fills his salad bowl with lettuce. Abby, I note, messes with the napkin on her lap. She seems uneasy, waiting for the other shoe to drop. And then I see why when I look over at Chase. He’s scanning the chairs around the table, frowning.

“Where’s Will?” he sharply asks his mother.

“He won’t be joining us for dinner today,” she replies, her voice unnaturally light and carefree.

Abby abandons messing with her napkin and instead starts pushing around pieces of chicken on her plate.

“Why isn’t Will joining us for dinner?” Chase’s voice is anything but light.

Greg clears his throat, but Chase pays him no heed. “Mom,” he presses, “where is Will?”

Abby picks up her water glass and takes a long sip. She sets it down carefully and, not meeting Chase’s stare, she says, “Your brother went over to Cassie’s house for the night. You’ll see him tomorrow.”