Sway (Landry Family #1)(48)
He slices through his chicken breast. "She'll be pleased to know that."
"Gentlemen, if you don't mind," I say, scooting my chair back, "I'm going to have to take off. I have an appointment in a few minutes that I was going to call off, but since we seem to be finished here, I think I'll try to make it."
Monroe laughs, knowing I'm making it up. "No problem. Good to do business with you, Barrett."
"You too," I bite out. I don't bother looking at Nolan. I just slip through the restaurant, avoiding the hostess, and out the door.
Alison
I SUBMIT MY FINAL PAPER of the day to my professor and close my laptop. I’ve been working at this all day, trying to nail the theme of the piece and I’m confident that I did. One more year of school and working two jobs and I’ll be firmly on my own two feet.
Huxley is riding his bike in the backyard, creating a little trail around the one tree that stands almost in the middle. I can’t wait to buy a bigger house in a better neighborhood with a great big space so he can play and move to his heart’s delight.
The doorbell rings and I give one last look to Hux before heading to the entry way. A delivery man is standing on the other side, holding a vase filled with deep purple flowers and a satiny white ribbon.
“Ms. Baker?”
“That’s me.”
“These are for you.”
He hands me the heavy vase, and before I can thank him, he’s back in his van. I pull them to my nose, breathing in the wonderful scent, and close the door behind me.
With an excited step, I make my way to the kitchen, place them on the counter, and pull out the card written on white stationary.
I hope you’re thinking about me, because I’m thinking about you. -Barrett
Bringing the card to my chest, I hold it over my heart and allow myself to smile, to bask in the feeling of being wanted. That this busy man, in the midst of the most strenuous moment of his career, took a second out of his day to make me feel like this.
We haven’t seen each other since the cabana, but we’ve talked every day multiple times. He instigates conversations as much or more than I do, and that’s refreshing. Sometimes he’ll send me a text with an article he thinks I’ll find interesting and sometimes it’s just to say hey. Regardless, it’s nice and has left a permanent smile etched on my face.
We’re taking this slow, slower than I thought we could, and . . . I think it’s working.
Huxley scrambles through the back door and catches me before I can compose myself. “Where’d those come from?” he asks, his knees dirty from the lawn.
“Someone sent them to me.”
“They’re nice.”
“Thank you.”
“Was it a boy?”
My brain fires on all cylinders, trying to figure out what to say to Hux without scaring him.
“It was,” I say truthfully. “A man sent me flowers.”
“I hope it’s a nice one. Like Lincoln Landry,” he says, opening the fridge. “He promised me we’d play baseball soon.”
I smile as he rummages through the bins. “You do know he’s probably really busy. Don’t be disappointed if he doesn’t call, okay?”
“He will,” he says matter-of-factly. “We’re best friends practically.”
Laughing, I try to decide whether to segue that little Landry opening to who sent the flowers or not. Hux decides for me.
“It wasn’t Lincoln, was it? That sent those?”
“No,” I say carefully. “But you know his brother? The mayor?”
He nods, opening a string cheese.
“He sent them to me.”
“The one that can’t play baseball?”
“Yes,” I giggle. “The one that can’t play baseball.”
Huxley shrugs like the ten-year-old boy eating string cheese that he is. “Well, at least he has a cool brother, I guess.”
I walk across the room and give him a giant hug. “He’s pretty cool, too, I think.”
“Is he your boyfriend now?”
“No, nothing like that. We’re just friends. Seeing if we like each other.”
He peers up at me through his long lashes. There are spatters of dirt mixed in with the freckles that span the bridge of his nose. “He’ll like you, Mom. Why wouldn’t he?”
“Who knows,” I smile. “But how do you feel about that? If a man would come around sometimes. Would that bother you?”
He chews the last bite and drops his wrapper in the trash. “No, I guess not.” He looks at the ground before pulling his eyes to mine, hesitation swimming in them. “I don’t say this because I think it might hurt your feelings and I don’t mean it like that, Mom. But I miss having a dad. I miss doing boy stuff with a real guy. Not that you aren’t the best—”
I pull him into me before he can finish. I know what he’s going to say and I want to spare him the pain of saying it . . . and of me having to hear it.
“Mom, you’re squishing me,” he says, his voice muffled. He pulls back and looks into my eyes. “I’m going to Grandma’s tonight, right?”
I nod, fighting back tears. “If you want to.”