The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(20)

Ingrid’s entire cherub face lights up in a smile so big her eyes crinkle. “Now you’re cheating. How’s a hot mess mom supposed to resist an invitation from a guy who loves his own mother so much?”

“A lesser man would be very embarrassed right now.”

She laughs.

It’s music. Fucking gorgeous music.

“On my honor as my mother’s favorite son, I’ll take you to dinner somewhere safe, keep my hands to myself, be a pleasant conversationalist, not judge you if you fall asleep halfway through dessert, and get you back home at a decent hour so that you’re not paying for a night out for the next three days.”

The offer hangs in the air between us like the blue mist that hangs over my favorite mountains, and I know my mother can hear every word, and I don’t care.

I want to take this woman out to dinner.

But she’s watching me like she’s waiting for me to add a punchline. “One, have you been spying on me? That’s an oddly specific version of a grown-up dinner out that might match exactly what I was telling my best friend I need. And two, why me?”

“One, raised by a single mother and watched my brother be a single dad for a couple years, and I do occasionally have observant moments. And two, I could use a few more friends to keep me grounded. Not often anyone tells me when I’m making bad decisions anymore. At least, not friends who aren’t keeping secrets from me about what my mother’s been up to. And I might need advice on dealing with that too.” I nudge her arm with mine, and a crackle of energy passes between us.

I pretend I don’t feel it.

Her lips part and she straightens, but she also looks away. When her phone rings out a shrill alarm bell, she seems relieved for the distraction as she balances her coffee with digging her phone out. “Time to get the first kid. Thank you for the coffee.”

“And dinner?”

“You’re very persistent.”

“It’s a youngest child thing.”

That finally earns me another smile. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good. When you’re ready, text me.” I slip her phone out of her hand and program my number in while she watches me with surprised eyes. I shoot myself a message so I remember not to block her number, then hand it back to her. “Stop by anytime.”

“Bring your kids next time.” Mom steps into the doorway, making no secret of just how closely she’s been listening, which isn’t a surprise to me, and I expect Ingrid’s been aware of her too. “It’ll serve him right to have them wreaking havoc on his furniture instead of him wreaking havoc in your store.”

Ingrid turns a wry smile to her. “I’m pretty sure my kids would’ve caused the same problems without him there.”

“Then do it for me and all the times he disastrophied my house.”

She laughs, and when I show her out the door so she can start her run to pick up her kids, I still don’t know if I should expect a houseful next time she stops by.

Probably not.

If I want to see her again, I get the feeling it’ll still be on me.

And I’m okay with that.

Especially since I still want to hang out in her loft and write songs.

There’s always one more way to get what I want.

And what I want is more Ingrid in my life. However I can get it.





Seven





Ingrid



I’m putting Hudson to bed for the third time when I hear the girls thundering through the living room. “I want my own Skippy,” Hudson says.

I kiss him on the forehead and tighten his Thomas the Tank Engine comforter around him. “When you grow up, you can go live in the woods and have all the Skippys you want. But right now, you have to go to sleep.”

Sleep.

I want to crawl into bed, finish the audiobook I started this week, and go to sleep.

But for the first time in weeks—months, maybe?—I want something else more.

“Mama? Can I have a drink?”

“You already had a drink.”

“I want a banana.”

“You already brushed your teeth.”

“Story?”

“I told you five stories. It’s bedtime.”

“Can I be a firetruck?”

“You can be anything you want to be.”

“Can I have a drink?”

“Hudson. I’m walking out this door, and you’re going to close your eyes and go to sleep, or else you’ll have to eat liver and onions for breakfast.”

He giggles.

Something crashes in the living room, and I hear the girls whisper to each other in the panicked tones that suggest I should’ve taken the vet up on her offer to find Skippy a new home.

Especially after she told me a story about another client who tried to keep a pet squirrel and ended up having to explain to the chief of police how one of his officers’ badges ended up in her house.

I kiss Hudson one last time and head out of his tiny room, knowing full well we’ll repeat this routine two more times before I get to sit down with my phone and do something braver than I’ve done in years.

“Zoe. Piper. What are you doing?”

Our living room is basically the size of Levi Wilson’s foyer. When Grandma and Grandpa lived here, they kept a small loveseat and a single La-Z-Boy recliner in the room, along with a TV stand for their 32-inch television, which was the only thing they splurged on in their entire lives that wasn’t books or bakery treats, but Grandma liked seeing Alex Trebek in 32-inch glory every night on Jeopardy! and Grandpa liked Grandma to be happy.