Bring Down the Stars (Beautiful Hearts Duet #1)(53)

“Once or twice.” Paul smiled at me. “I heard you wrote a winning essay for a scholarship to a very prestigious prep school in Boston.”

“It’s all true,” Ma said. “That’s how he met this one.” She patted Connor on the shoulder. “This one…” She shook her head, her lips pursed to hold back a sudden rush of emotion as she took Connor’s face in both of her hands. “I don’t know what we would’ve done without him. And his family. They took care of me. Took care of us…”

I clenched my teeth. That was my dad’s job. And since he’s fucking gone, it’s my job…

“Come on, Miranda,” Connor said, hugging Ma’s shoulders.

“Times are tough and I just feel so grateful to have these beautiful boys.” She turned to Paul. “And now you. I’m surrounded by good men. How did I get so lucky?”

The waitress appeared with a tray, laden with plates of pancakes, eggs, and bacon. After she sorted out who got what—with Ma’s loud assistance—we dug in.

I glanced at Paul beside me as we ate, still searching for the scumbag that lurked within his mild-mannered, nice guy act.

“What do you do for a living, Paul?” I asked.

Are you ‘between opportunities’? Taking some time off? Crashing with Ma until you get back on your feet?

Paul opened his mouth to answer but Ma swooped in with a proud smile.

“He’s a regional sales manager for a lumber distribution company. How about that? The buildings you see going up all over? That lumber gets there because of him.”

That lumbah gets they-ah cuzza him. Ma’s accent seemed stronger every time I saw her, and listening to her drew mine out of me against my will, when I worked so hard to kill it.

Paul chuckled. “Miranda makes my job sound loftier than it is.”

“Don’t minimize yourself,” she scolded. “And I’m so happy you took time off to drive out here to see my son. Wish it was a better performance.”

“Thanks, Ma,” I said over my coffee cup, just as Connor dropped his gaze toward his plate and Paul mumbled, “Miranda…”

“Well? Am I wrong?” she said. “You’re always the best one out there. What happened today?”

“I tripped on a hurdle, Ma,” I said. “It happens.”

She shook her head, clucking her tongue. “Such a shame.”

“I thought you were terrific in your first race,” Paul said.

“He came in second,” Ma said. “He never comes in second. That’s how he got the NCAA scholarship, for being so fast.” She ripped open a packet of Sweet & Low and dumped it into her coffee. “Speaking of which, baby, what are you going to do about next year?”

“What happens next year?” Paul asked.

“No more scholarship, that’s what happens.”

I exchanged glances with Connor and shook my head slightly. If I told her the NCAA people had been there on the same afternoon I DQ’d a race, her head would explode.

“You know my friend Gilly?” Ma said. “Her son’s about your age. He was on the verge of jailbird city. Well, this recruiter comes from the Army Reserves and signs him up. Now he’s got a few grand coming in per month, health bennies and they’ll pay for his college.”

“You want me to join the Army, Ma?”

She shrugged and stirred her coffee with a spoon. “I’m just saying the Army Reserves is only one weekend a month.”

“Things are heating up in Syria,” Paul said to his oatmeal.

Ma waved her hand. “Things blow over. They always do.”

“What if that weekend per month interferes with track?” I asked.

“Track’s not paying for your college anymore.” She pointed her spoon at me. “You still got to pay for college.” She tilted her head and half-shrugged and said in a lower voice, “And the monthly pay wouldn’t be so terrible, would it?”

“You don’t need it,” Paul said to her. He put his hand on my arm. “Keep running, Wes.”

I glanced down at his hand, smattered with dark hair and pudgy at the knuckles. A dad’s hand. It patted me, then retreated back toward oatmeal and coffee. And it wasn’t so bad.

“So tell me, Connor,” Paul said brightly. “What’s your sport? You look like a baseball man to me.”





We said our goodbyes in the parking lot. Ma took my face in her hands and smacked a kiss on my cheek.

“You did good. Not your best show, but I’m still proud of you.”

“Thanks, Ma,” I said.

She turned to hug Connor, leaving Paul and me face to face.

“Good to meet you, Weston.” He put out his hand for a shake, then grimaced. “Keep forgetting you’re bearing war wounds.”

I wouldn’t have minded shaking his hand. “Good to meet you, too,” I said, with the most honest smile I could find.

“We’ll see you soon, I hope,” Ma said. “Thanksgiving? Can you manage to haul your butt out east for Thanksgiving?”

“He’ll be there,” Connor said. “My mother is looking forward to seeing you. Felicia and Kimberly, too.” He turned to Paul, and they shook hands. “You as well, Mr. Winfield. Please come. We’d love to have you.”