The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(16)

But that’s not his voice drifting in from the foyer.

Not unless he’s been doing enough voice training to accurately pull off sounding like a woman. And given that he supposedly works at a nuclear reactor, and he’s definitely completely out of the public spotlight, I sincerely doubt he’s been having voice lessons.

I glance toward the doorway as Mom steps through, giving me a look I haven’t seen since—

Actually, I’m gonna stop myself right there, because if I even think that name, Mom’ll smack me upside the head.

Let’s just say if Tripp and Beck and Wyatt and Cash were horrified at the idea that I’d hooked back up with Violet, Mom would be first in line seasoning my date’s coffee with laxatives.

But that’s not an ex-girlfriend trailing behind her with pink cheeks and wide-eyed wariness, a foil-wrapped plate in her hand.

It’s Ingrid.

This is unexpected, except it shouldn’t be.

Both of my primary protection agents and my personal assistant know I’m obsessed with this woman and would take any excuse to see her again, and I asked Giselle this morning to make sure she wasn’t feeling bad about the squirrel thing.

“Oh. Hey.” I move my guitar aside, belatedly remember to check and make sure I’m wearing pants—I am, gray sweatpants, thank you—and am about to rise when my mom makes one of those mother noises that means if you move, I’ll make sure you regret it for the rest of your life.

She’s taking this get over this concussion thing seriously.

Probably because she was planning a trip into the mountains for a girls’ spa retreat with the other moms from the old neighborhood this weekend—or so she said—and now she’s stuck here babysitting me instead.

At least I know she’s not out on any dates if she’s here with me.

“Don’t get up,” Ingrid says, like being a mom means that she, too, knows when a guy’s about to cause trouble.

Fuck.

Now I’m realizing I want to get to know a single mother while getting pissed that my own single mother has found someone whose company she enjoys.

It’s different. I’m harmless, and I don’t know if the same can be said about Mom’s mystery guy.

“I needed to stretch anyway,” I tell Ingrid.

She shakes her head. “No, really. I won’t stay long. I didn’t mean to intrude. I just wanted to apologize for Zoe and the squirrel, and Giselle told me I could stop by to check on you. We baked cookies. I don’t know if you eat cookies, but they’re chocolate chip since I got the impression you don’t like oatmeal raisin, and—”

“Do me a favor and get as far from my mom as possible before she steals them and doesn’t let me eat any.”

Mom rolls her eyes. “I’m extremely disappointed they’re not oatmeal raisin.”

“I’m getting you a squirrel for Christmas.”

“Excellent. I’ll feed it all your cookies.” She turns to Ingrid. “Speaking of, I can put those cookies in the kitchen.”

“Don’t do it.” I’m tossing aside my guitar once again.

Mom points the sit still point at me while still smiling her I don’t trust you smile at Ingrid, which is probably fair after all of the how do I know I can trust this guy? questions I’ve lobbed at her about her own secret boyfriend since she arrived yesterday to babysit me. “I’ll let him have one after he eats all of his dinner.”

“Extra peas and carrots?” Ingrid’s eyes sparkle.

“I’m sneaking liver into his stuffed squash too.”

I’m beginning to suspect Mom’s enjoying this even more than she’d be enjoying her spa retreat in the mountains, but not as much as she’d enjoy me and Tripp not knowing she’s seeing someone.

I rise, which makes both women order me to sit back down.

“I have a headache, not a broken spine,” I grumble.

Ingrid winces, and I immediately feel bad. “Which wasn’t your fault, or your daughter’s,” I add quickly. “How is she?”

“Completely fine. Doing back handsprings, the last I saw.”

“And the squirrel?”

She winces again. “Unfortunately quite at home in my apartment since I have a hard time telling my children no when they put their hearts into something.”

Mom clucks her tongue in sympathy. “Been there. Levi kept a pet porcupine for a few years.”

“It was a pinecone that I called a porcupine.” That didn’t sound any better out loud than Mom’s betrayal.

But Ingrid smiles. “That would definitely be preferable. Instead, I’m considering putting a warning sign on the shop door.”

“Books, games, and unexpected entertainment?”

“I was thinking more like, ‘You should probably order online and we’ll meet you at the door.’ We call the store’s book club the Hot Mess Book Club, and we sell these Hot Mess Mom T-shirts, but I think we’re past hot mess and into utter disaster territory.”

“You sound like my kind of people. Not that I wouldn’t trust my son to have good judgment with people.” Mom succeeds in not only delivering the subtle dig that I should trust her judgment while reminding me that she doesn’t, in fact, trust my judgment, but also in stealing the plate of cookies.