The Slow Burn (Moonlight and Motor Oil #2)(4)

“I am not a hillbilly and I’m a Kentuckian born and bred. And you are not a hillbilly either,” she stated.

“Are you gonna feed me, or what?” he asked.

“‘Margot, I’m famished. Will you please make me a snack?’” she corrected.

“I’m never sayin’ that famished word in my life,” he returned.

She didn’t quite beat the smile before she replied, “Saying, Tobias.” Then she shifted aside so he could get in, murmuring, “Lord, child, what am I going to do with you?”

“Feed me?”

She rolled her eyes, but he saw before she did, they were smiling.

He walked in.

She made him wash his hands then get out his books at the kitchen table while she fixed him a roast beef sandwich with melted muenster on top, slathered in mayo with a ton of ridged Ruffles stacked on the side.

In fact, there were so many chips, the sandwich was almost covered in them. It was like she was making him a full meal, even if he’d had lunch and it was near-on dinnertime.

He didn’t care. It was awesome and he was, well . . . famished.

He grinned and got down to his geometry because he knew she wouldn’t let him go home until he was done with his homework.

Toby was half through the sandwich, had made a dent in the chips, and was almost done with geometry when he looked at Margot at the stove, doing stuff with a big hunk of meat in a pan she was gonna roast for Dave for dinner.

Their boys were all in college. Well, Lance, the oldest one, was an engineer out in Oregon, but Dave Junior and Mark were in college.

So it was now just Margot and Dave.

She didn’t have all her boys to look after anymore.

Dad had said it made her sad. And Toby’d seen that, for sure.

And when he did, even if Grams or Gramps were home, or the mill was calling, he came after school to her, and not just because she did great snacks (Grams did great snacks too).

Now she seemed to be doing better.

And he was glad.

Still.

He was looking at her because that feeling in his stomach had turned and it did it so bad, he had to get it out.

“Only thing I care about . . .” he started.

Margot turned her head to him.

“Is you not goin’ away,” he finished.

She straightened from her beef and rotated fully to him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Tobias.”

“I like Rachel fine,” he said. “And I don’t care about Mom,” he lied. “But don’t you go anywhere.”

“I’m not going anywhere, darlin’.”

He stared at her.

She let him and stared right back.

This went on awhile.

When it lasted long enough to make that feeling start to fade, he looked back to his books.

Margot went back to her roast.

When Dave, Dad and Johnny got home (Dave worked at the garage too), Margot demanded the Gambles stay for dinner.

And when Margot demanded something, the men in her life did it.

Toby didn’t mind.

Her roast was almost as good as her cookies.

And they all got to give her stuff during dinner and she got to pretend it annoyed her.

Like always with his family the way it was . . .

It was awesome.

And like always when he was over at Margot and Dave’s he went home with a full stomach.

And that felt good.



Fifteen Years Later . . .

Tobe lay with his back to the headboard of his bed, his phone to his ear, listening to it ring.

It was late and there was a three-hour time difference.

He knew they’d answer.

They did.

Or Dave did.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Dave,” Toby replied quietly.

“Son, do you know what time it is?”

“Tell Margot I got my pilot’s license today.”

“Oh hell,” Dave muttered.

Toby grinned.

“What?” he heard Margot in the background. “Is that Tobias? Where is he? Is he all right?”

“I’ll let you handle that,” Toby said to Dave, still quiet. “Love to you both.”

Then he disconnected.

He looked at his watch and timed it.

It was one minute and twenty-three seconds later when his cell phone vibrated.

“Hey, Margot,” he answered in a soft voice.

“I have a mind to—”

“I got all my hours in. I aced the test,” he assured her. “My instructor said I was a natural.”

“When you were learning to teach golf, your instructor said you were a natural at that too,” she returned.

“Well, I was.”

“And when you were up in Alaska logging, your foreman told you he thought you’d been born in the north, you were such a natural logger, when you’re southern through and through.”

“Well, there was that too.”

She sighed before she announced, “All I can say is that I’m glad you’re not doing that anymore. Did you know that logging is the number one most dangerous job in America?”

He did not know that.

Though, having been a logger for two years, he wasn’t surprised.

She kept at him.

“And I suspect being a pilot is number two.”