Текст книги "Against the Ropes"

Автор книги: Jeanette Murray

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER

12

“The article reads well.” Marianne settled in her chair, Kara and Reagan in their by-now assigned positions on two of the training tables in the AT room. “I’m sorry about the protestors, though.”

Reagan played with the homemade breakfast sandwich Kara had brought over. Zach, her son, was playing imaginary basketball in the gym while they talked in relative privacy.

Early that morning, Reagan had passed the small but determined group of protestors on her trek through the main gates. They couldn’t step on base, but they huddled together just outside on the main road that led to the main gate, where a majority of the Marines would drive through. Holding up hastily created signs that ranged from generic military hatred—“Damn those who hide behind the uniform”—to ones that were more specific to the current kerfuffle—“Violent sports + violent men = more violence.”

That one, she had thought with a private snicker, had been a truly moronic one. If you were going to take the time and energy to make a sign, at least create one that was original.

The smile died as she remembered children, no older than Zach, standing with their parents in the weak morning sun with their parents, holding hateful signs.

“I knew it would happen eventually. I just didn’t think it would be so soon, and after just one article.” Reagan let her sandwich fall back to the paper plate. Her appetite had taken a nosedive.

“It was a doozy of an article.” Kara reached over and stroked a soft hand once down Reagan’s arm. “They’ll move on shortly. We’ve seen this dozens of times, right, Marianne?”

“She’s right. It’s not uncommon around here. We’ve seen it all.”

“And when they’re tired, or just bored, they’ll move—” Kara paused, then yelled, “Zachary, get in here!” in a voice so fierce, Reagan jumped a little. That was, without a doubt, the Mom Voice.

Zach peeked his sweet face in the doorway. “Yeah, Mom?”

“Were you on the other side of the gym?”

He flushed, and even Reagan squirmed a little being witness to the Mom Stare. Kara had all the weapons of motherhood in her arsenal, and she was loaded for bear this morning.

The sweet woman with the elfin face and soft voice crossed her arms over her chest and glared. “And remind me, one more time, why you aren’t allowed to cross the halfway mark of the gym?”

Zach sighed, the heavy sigh of the beleaguered. “Because the coach’s office is on that side of the gym.” When Kara only waited, he added, “And I’m not supposed to bother him, even if his door is closed.”

“That’s right. So you stay on this side, or I’ll make you sit in here and listen to us gossip.”

The horrified look on Zach’s face had Reagan covering a snicker with a cough. “Fine, Mom.” He sprinted away, and they could hear his sneakers echoing in the hollow, empty gym as he darted around invisible defenders on his way to make the game-winning basket.

“Stinker,” Kara muttered, but she was fighting off a smile.

“He’s awesome,” Reagan said. “Reminds me of my brothers. They all turned out decent, for the most part.”

“For the most part?” Marianne leaned in. “Which one didn’t?”

“The ax murderer,” Reagan said easily, appetite returning enough to pop another bite of sandwich in her mouth and chew before she added, “Kidding.”

Kara and Marianne’s twin frozen faces of terror made her snort.

“You guys are too easy. He’s just a good kid, that’s all I mean. Listens to his mom, pushes boundaries a little—but what kid doesn’t?—and respects you enough to not argue when you rein him back in.”

“He is pretty awesome, isn’t he?” Kara’s smile grew a little misty, and Reagan wanted very much to avoid waterworks.

“Yup. If only he weren’t so ugly . . .”

“Reagan!” Marianne threw her napkin at her while simultaneously laughing.

The sound of men’s voices drifted to their room, and all three women sat up a little straighter. Marianne checked the clock. “Must be an early group wanting to get some exercise in before practice.”

“Zach!” Kara hopped off the table and rushed to the door of the training room. “Zach, come back in here now.”

Zach rushed back, red-faced. The unmistakable sound of a basketball bouncing caught Reagan’s ear. “Mom! Mom, they said I could play with them. They’ve got a basketball with them and they said they were going to get a game in before practice. Can I play? Pleeeeeeeeeeeease?”

The amount of pathos a child could pack into a single word was unbelievable.

Reagan could see the worry in Kara’s eyes. Would her son get hurt? Would his feelings be crushed if they rejected him? Would he just be in the way? “I don’t know. I think maybe you should—”

“Hey, ladies.” Graham Sweeney walked over, a ripped T-shirt covering his torso—sort of—and a basketball under one arm. He slung the other arm around Zach’s head, pressing the kid’s ear into his rib cage. “We need someone younger and weaker to beat up on so we can feel manly before practice. Mind if we use this thing for a punching bag?”

Zach protested, fighting off the hold, but Reagan could see he was laughing. It was a totally guy thing to do, and Zach was loving it.

Kara looked unconvinced, but Marianne asked, “Do you promise to return him in nearly the same condition as you found him?”

“Which is pretty scrawny and not much to look at,” Reagan added, which had Graham throwing her a brilliant grin. The man was truly Greek god gorgeous. If she hadn’t been sitting down already, she would have felt the full impact in the knees on that one.

Kara reached out to stroke a hand over Zach’s hair—a move Reagan had seen her do a dozen times. But this time, Zach dodged. Kara snatched her hand back, aware she’d nearly embarrassed her son in front of men he wanted to impress. “If you’re sure he won’t interrupt anything . . .”

“Nah. He’s all good. Come on, fresh meat. Let’s go rough you up a bit.” He started to go, but then turned around. “Oh, and Reagan? You’re all set for tonight. Have fun.”

Zach laughed and followed, and then the sounds of a basketball bouncing, male grunts, groans and—along with Kara’s winces—some swearing filled the gym. Marianne walked over and closed the door. “‘Have fun’? All set for what?”

“Spill,” Kara added.

“I might be having dinner with a certain Marine tonight.” Reagan took another bite, and forced herself to chew thoroughly before swallowing. The pained looks on her friends’ faces told her she’d taken enough time with torture. “I’m going over to Graham’s house tonight for dinner.”

“But I thought you were dating Greg,” Kara said, looking confused.

“Sorry, yes. We’re borrowing Graham’s house for the, uh, date.” She shrugged. “Greg wanted to cook and obviously he can’t do that at his place.”

“Why not yours?”

Reagan swallowed another bite before answering, “My kitchen is horrible.” No lie there. “I survive off cold cereal and granola bars.” Also no lie.

“But you’re not going to”—Kara checked the door before finishing—“do it there, right? Because in someone else’s bed is just—”

“Ew. No!” Reagan recoiled at the thought. “We just wanted privacy for a meal and a movie.” The image Greg had painted the night before as he’d said good-bye at her car drifted through her mind. She couldn’t stop her lips from curving. “That’s all.”

“Privacy would be at your place, where you apparently don’t want him to be.” Marianne watched her thoughtfully. “So you either meet him at his place, where there’s no privacy, or at Kara’s place, where there’s no privacy, or at someone else’s house, where there’s no hopes of getting busy because of the ‘ew’ factor. Sounds like you’re cockblocking yourself.”

“Or we’re just in a unique situation that requires some extra thought before taking the next step,” Reagan said primly.

“Bull,” both women said at once.

“We’ve got a few travel gigs coming up,” Marianne added. “Why don’t you take advantage of them? Make sure your hotel room is right next to his or something. Sneak into his room after bed check.”

“Could you make this sound any more juvenile?” Reagan grumbled, then popped down and brushed her hands off on the napkin. “Guess today’s the day I give a ‘How to Handle Protestors’ lecture.”

Marianne smiled. “Want me to make you a pamphlet?”

*   *   *

FOUR hours later, Reagan sat at her laptop, trying to work in her apartment. She had two more hours before she needed to be at Graham’s, and if she couldn’t focus on something else, she’d go crazy with anticipation. But there was a problem . . .

The refrigerator was loud.

Not just loud . . . constant. The kind of constant noise that wormed its way into your mind so that long after the sound was gone, you still heard it because it had slowly driven you crazy.

Reagan threw an accusatory glance at the appliance. It didn’t respond. Instead, it hummed the same hum it had been making all evening. The same hum that had buried itself into Reagan’s brain until she could no longer concentrate on the task at hand.

Or maybe that was just her inner procrastinator talking.

Probably the latter. Not that she’d accept defeat to the fridge.

She focused, squinted at the screen, closed both eyes and tried very hard to remember all the different types of punches one could use in a boxing match.

She ended up with one: a punch.

“This is impossible,” she growled, shooting one more glare at the kitchen before closing her laptop. How was she supposed to work with a bunch of boxers as their athlete liaison if she had no clue what they were doing half the time?

A small part of her mind reminded her this was exactly why she had misled her supervisor when she’d done the interview. That she’d done her best to sound as knowledgeable about boxing as she could without delving too deep into the details. She’d memorized a few of the most famous boxers and what they were most famous for. But in reality . . . she’d just needed the damn job.

Call your brothers.

They liked boxing. They liked all sports. It was the only thing accessible for guys—that was legal, anyway—in their backward town. Hell, the only reason she’d been a cheerleader was because it was either that or 4H for girls. Her brothers had all played whatever sports they could get their hands on, and watched what sports they could on the few channels they had growing up. She’d been outnumbered four to one when it came time to pick channels.

Calling her brothers, though, meant calling home. And calling home was never something she could do lightly. Most people thought of home as a safety net, a soft place to fall, a nest one could be gently nudged out of, but always return to when times were hard.

Reagan considered her home quicksand. Put one foot in and it dragged you down until you couldn’t breathe and lost the light of day.

A dramatic image, maybe, but accurate.

But there was no way she was getting anywhere on her own with this.

Call Greg.

She wasn’t quite ready to admit her incompetence yet. She would rather he—all the Marines, really—saw her as an independent businesswoman who didn’t need assistance. Plus, she was due to see him in a few hours. He’d consider her call a ploy to hear from him, like a lovesick puppy. No, thank you.

Which left her with her brothers. Again.

Reagan stared at her phone with the same sort of disdain she’d given the refrigerator. Finally, she picked it up and dialed home, praying it was her youngest brother who would answer and not her mother.

“Hello?”

No such luck. Reagan took a deep breath, then one more as her mother tersely repeated, “Hello?”

“Hey, Mom.”

There was a brief pause. “Reagan?”

“Yeah, Mom, it’s me.” Swallowing, she tried to bypass what she knew would be a rough conversation. “I had a work question for Nick. Is he there?”

“And just what do you think an eighteen-year-old is gonna do for your fancy job?” her mother asked, voice tight with disapproval. “He doesn’t have a college degree like you.”

Reagan closed her eyes and counted to five. “I had a question about boxing. I know Nick watches it.”

“They’ve got boxing here, if you wanted to work with a bunch of sweaty men. Remind me again why this job was so important you had to move halfway across the country? Away from your family?”

Because I couldn’t breathe around you.

“Because that’s where the job offer came from.” Doing her best to be reasonable against all odds, she added, “I do miss you all.”

“Not enough to call more often. Oh, I know,” her mother added with the sigh of a woman truly put upon. “You have so much to do, being important, that you can’t spare the time.”

“Okay, so, I can call back later then.”

“Always were too good for your family.”

“No, Mom.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and cursed whatever stupid idea had led her to this conversation. “That’s not it. I just wanted something different.”

“Which is code for better.” Her mother sniffed. “You’ll come back. They always come back.”

If Reagan had had a nice, soft place to land, maybe. Sometimes people did need to come home to regroup. She could understand a home where you could move back when times were tough, get back on your feet quickly, and part with your parents once more on good terms.

She did not come from such a house.

“Hey, Mom? I actually have to run. The . . .” She fought for a good excuse. “Work is calling.”

“Well aren’t they special, calling you at all hours. See what reaching for better gets you? You’re never off work. Never relaxing. Get yourself a solid job, and you can clock in and out and wash your hands of the place when you leave. Your brother—”

“I know, Mom. Sorry, love you, bye!” She ended the call and dropped the phone on the desk like it was a snake.

She could have stayed in her hometown, Reagan thought as she went back to searching boxing terms and watching instructional videos. Could have stayed there, married one of her boyfriends right out of high school like so many of her classmates had, been pregnant before twenty, become a mother before she could legally drink. Right now, she could have three under three, clinging to her legs while she cleaned the stove or something.

She shot her own stove an assessing glance.

Nope.

It wasn’t that she had anything against those who got married out of high school. It was absolutely their choice, and she hoped they had a good life. It just wasn’t her choice. She would have slowly died in that life. But that wasn’t concerning to her family. What mattered was her turning her back on what her mother considered “tradition.”

It hurt. Who would be able to say, “Yeah, rejection from my family? Great stuff.” But you couldn’t choose your family. Sometimes, you just had to live with it.

Her phone buzzed, and she checked the screen warily. It was a text message, but not from family.

Marianne: Don’t you dare wear one of your suits tonight.

She grinned and texted back.

Reagan: I was thinking of going naked. Thoughts?

Marianne: I don’t have bail money, just so you know. Put on some date-wear.

Reagan: Can you be more specific?

Marianne: Sexy, not slutty. Think shoulders, not tits. Think back, not ass. And nothing that will wrinkle, in case things get a little frisky.

Reagan: Hold on, let me get a pencil to write this down. It’s pure fashion gold.

Marianne: :P Go have fun. Wear your hair down. And for God’s sake, wear a heel under three inches. Your ankles and your athletic trainer are both begging you.

Reagan couldn’t stop smiling as she walked into her bedroom to assess her wardrobe for anything “date-wear” worthy.

As she laid out three tank tops on the bed, she realized that no, you couldn’t choose your family. But sometimes you could add on a brand-new branch, with friends.

She had a good start on that new branch with the friends she’d made already in Jacksonville. Time to focus on that.

CHAPTER

13

Greg stirred the sauce and kept an ear out for the door. Graham, the idiot, had left only minutes earlier, after razzing him ruthlessly about everything from his outfit—had the man never seen a pair of slacks before?—to the menu and mood music he’d put on.

Greg didn’t take it personally. Clearly, his friend was jealous. He was about to spend the evening with a beautiful woman, eating decent food and hopefully doing a bit more of that kissing he’d gotten a taste of earlier.

Meanwhile, his friend was hitting up a movie and, well, he wasn’t quite sure what else Graham had planned. As long as he stayed out until midnight, as promised.

The doorbell rang, and Greg turned the burner down to low and dashed for the door. When he opened it, he expected to find Reagan in his eye line. Instead, he realized he had to look down a few inches to find her. “Hey. You’re here.”

“I am.” She stepped by, brushing her breasts against his arm as she moved into the home. “Nice and out of the way of Jacksonville back here.”

“Not in Jacksonville at all, actually. It’s Hubert. Don’t blink or you’ll miss it.”

Reagan shrugged out of her light sweater and glanced around. “Coat closet?”

Greg couldn’t move. He wanted to explain but couldn’t. Instead of the starched, proper business suits he was used to seeing her in, she wore a tank top in deep emerald that cut low over her breasts with the thinnest of straps crossing over her shoulders. Her pants were black, but instead of the tailored business suit bottoms she normally wore, they were snug and cut off at just above the ankle. And foregoing her trademark heels, she had chosen flats instead, black again, with sparkly buckles.

And that didn’t mention her hair, which she’d left loose and soft to fall in simple waves around those bare shoulders.

He realized he’d been staring as she pulled her sweater back against her chest. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no of course not. Sorry.” He reached for her sweater and, after a moment of consideration, draped it over the back of the love seat. They wouldn’t be using that piece of furniture anyway. He turned and pulled her into his arms, kissing her hard, and a little too briefly, before letting go. “You just look really good, that’s all.”

“I look different.” She grimaced and glanced down at her bare arms. “Marianne convinced me to break out some ‘date-wear.’” She used quote fingers on that one. “I thought I looked decent for work, but—”

“You do. This is just . . .” He hesitated, knowing he was walking right into a well-known man trap. “Different. A good different. A change. Variety.”

When she only smiled, he hoped that was a sign he’d dodged the proverbial bullet.

She walked past, and circled around Graham’s organized living room. “Does he live here alone?”

“He does, though he’s got people over enough it probably doesn’t seem like it. We all have an open invitation to hang out here if we need to escape the BOQ.”

One finger trailed over a photograph of Graham with his sister—Greg knew because he’d razzed his friend on having a hot relative—and she grinned. “Either you picked up big time right before I got here, or he’s a tidy fellow.”

“The second. I struggle to keep my own box of a room neat, and I only have like two suitcases–worth of clothing with me.” He took her hand before she could tantalize him any more with that fingertip-trailing thing she did and pulled her to the kitchen. “Come be my taster.”

“Sounds like the best offer I’ve had all day.”

He pulled her into the kitchen, then settled her on a bar stool and poured her a glass of wine. “I’m not great with wines,” he admitted, “but the guy at the liquor store on base told me this one was good with a red sauce.”

She lifted the glass, did a little swirl-and-sniff thing that made him doubt his ability to make a good selection, then took a tiny taste. He held his own breath, waiting. She burst out laughing when she looked at him. “I’m sorry, that was so pretentious. I know nothing about wine, either. I just know what tastes good.”

His entire body relaxed, and he kissed her hard in retaliation. “Stinker. So is it at least good?”

“It is. Well done.” She patted his cheek and settled back in her chair, waving a hand toward the stove. “Now go. Cook for me, minion.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He headed back to stir the sauce, dumped the pasta into boiling water, and double-checked his meatballs in the oven. After giving them the okay, he passed those to the saucepan and slid garlic bread slices into the oven in their place.

“The man can cook,” she murmured, watching him over the rim of her glass. “Hidden talents.”

“It’s just pasta, and other than grilling some meat—which I have to add, I’m excellent at—it’s all I can do. But it keeps me from fast food, at least part of the time. Meatballs go with a lot of stuff.”

“What’s the secret to grilling?”

He shook his head at that. “I can’t divulge the secret without some give and take.”

“Okay then.” Reagan settled back, looking as relaxed as he’d seen her since the day they met. She let one wavy lock of hair twirl around her finger. “I’ll bite. What do I have to do to get the famous grilling secret?”

“You’ve gotta pass on a recipe of your own. Simple trade.”

“Easy enough. I’ll give it to you right now.” She leaned forward, which meant her breasts were shelved on the high kitchen island. It was as if the granite countertop was made to hold those gorgeous orbs of alabaster skin. “You open up a bag of that salad mix, pour it into a bowl, then dump some Newman’s dressing over the top. Ta-dah. Salad.”

He scowled. “That’s it?”

“Sometimes, if I’m feeling really fancy, I buy that presliced deli meat and toss it on top. Now you’ve got a chef’s salad.” She sat back, looking smug as she took another sip. “But that’s really not for beginners. We’ll work our way up.”

“This isn’t good,” he said, stirring the pasta, testing a piece and deciding it needed one more minute. “Neither of us can cook more than two meals between the two of us. We’re doomed.”

“Hey, now. You haven’t had my famous macaroni and cheese.” She raised her brows at his skeptical look. “The blue-box recipe is extremely famous, thank you very much, Judgey Pants.”

“I’m sorry. I should have worn my more humble pants this evening. Simple wardrobe mistake.” He started to plate their dinner, stacking pans and pots by the sink to wash later. Or, should things go as anticipated, for Graham to wash later.

Sorry, buddy. You’d do the same thing.

As they sat down, he relished listening to her make pleasurable little sounds as she tasted a bit of each. “This isn’t the garlic bread you buy in the frozen foods section, is it?”

He did his best to appear offended. “How dare you, madam.”

She raised a brow, and he cracked like fine china. “Okay, fine. Normally I cheat and go that direction. But for tonight, I broke out the big guns and used a real French bread and did it myself. Much better.”

“Mmm. Much.” She took another bite of that piece, then set it aside. “Don’t let me have another, or I’ll never fit into my suits again.”

“I hardly think that’s an issue. But hey, if you’re looking for a postdinner calorie-burn . . .” He waggled his brows suggestively, and had the pleasure of watching her groan while laughing. “I’m just glad you said yes to dinner.”

“I’m glad Graham gave us the run of his house. You’re sure he’s okay leaving like this?”

Greg nodded. “He’s fine. He’s . . . do you want to get that?” he added, when her cell phone started to ring.

She glanced at her purse, sitting on the chair next to her. “No, ignore it.”

The ringing stopped, only to start again a few seconds later. “Go ahead. Might as well get whatever it is out of the way.”

She apologized, started to get up, then stopped and sat back down. “It’s Kara. Normally I’d ignore but—”

“Totally okay.”

He watched her worried expression as she answered.

“No, I’m not at my place, I’m already out. Why, what’s . . . oh. Uh . . .” She looked down at her plate, then over at Greg. “Well . . . okay. Yeah, sure. I’ll figure it out. How long will you need me?” She mouthed an I’m sorry to him. Kara needs me.

He motioned for her to hand him the phone. She hesitated, then said, “Kara, I’m actually with Greg and . . . no, it’s okay. Please don’t worry. But he wants to talk to you. Yeah. Okay, here.” She handed him the phone. “She’s got to run out and needs someone to watch Zach. It’s a yoga-mergency.”

Yoga-mergency? “Kara, hey. It’s Greg Higgs.”

“I’m sorry about this.” Misery and embarrassment were both plain in Kara’s voice. “I completely forgot you two were spending tonight together. If I’d remembered, I wouldn’t have barged in like this.”

“You need someone to watch Zach?”

“One of my clients—the one you don’t say no to because she pays way too well—called for a last-minute private before she leaves the country. Apparently she can’t go on vacation without one more round of sun salutations. My normal babysitter can’t make it.”

In the background, he could hear Zach’s small voice yell, “I don’t need a babysitter!”

Kara sighed. “I can’t get ahold of Marianne, and her parents are on vacation themselves. I’m so sorry, but—”

“Stay there. I’m sending reinforcements. And trust me, Zach will definitely not complain. Just trust me.”

“I’m not comfortable leaving him with a stranger,” Kara warned.

“You won’t be. Just hold tight.” He hung up, handed Reagan’s phone back to her, then whipped his own out to start texting.

After a minute, Reagan said, “Okay, curiosity is winning. Who are you sending over?”

“Graham.” Satisfied, he stuffed the phone in his pocket. “She knows him, Zach likes him, and he planned to stay out of the house for a few hours anyway. He’d been debating a movie, but this is going to be more fun. He’s good with it.”

“I know, but—”

“Hey.” He put one hand over hers, let his thumb caress the side. She opened under him, laced her fingers with his. “Has Kara ever been one to shrink in the face of motherly duties?”

“Of course not.”

“So she’s going to let us know if it’s not okay.” He took a sip of water, not wanting to let go of her hand just yet to eat. “Plus, I added that kid likely has a good video game collection, which means she’ll have a hard time getting rid of Graham.”

“Men.” Reagan smiled a little before pulling her hand away to twirl some pasta on her fork. “They’re just boys who eat more and kept getting bigger.”

“Exactly.” He tugged the back of her neck so she leaned in for a sweet kiss. “But you ladies tolerate us. Bless you.”

*   *   *

KARA wrung her hands, caught herself doing it, and forced them behind her back. Then in her pockets. Then clutching the straps of her yoga bag, she walked back to her son’s room.

He was exactly where she’d left him ten minutes earlier, sprawled on the bed, arms extended straight up, holding a graphic novel above. If he fell asleep for even a second, that book would fall and smack him straight in the nose.

She knew because she read the exact same way, and had woken up more than once when she’d dropped her book—or worse, her e-reader—on her face.

“Remember, Graham’s in charge.”

“Uh-huh,” Zach said without looking away from his book.

“I won’t be gone long.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you know your list of restrictions.”

“Yeah.”

“The main EpiPen is—”

“With the rest of the meds, like it’s always been.” He put his book over his stomach and gave her an irritated glance upside down. “Mom, I’m ten. I think I’ve got this.”

Her little boy, all grown up. Or at least, he thought so. “I know. I’m just being a mom. You’ll thank me one day.”

His snort as he picked up the book informed her he considered that outcome unlikely at best.

The knock on the door had her turning, just before she leaned back to say, “I love you, Zach.”

“Uh-huh.”

Boys. Shaking her head, Kara went to answer the door, and let in the babysitter.

The babysitter, of course, was the most gorgeous man she’d ever met. Graham’s dusky skin and perma-shadow from stubble made her think of pirates sailing the high seas. His hair was always a little longer than most, and probably skirted the edges of regulations. And he was tall, so tall. She’d also seen the man move. He was a true athlete, even with a yoga mat. He made her feel smart, listened to what she said and treated her like a lady.

He must be kept at arm’s length at all times.

“Graham.” She opened the door all the way and let him in. “I’m so sorry you got roped into coming over here.”

“No big. I had to be out of my place for a while, anyway.” He stood inside her tiny living room, making the room shrink just with his presence. He turned a three-sixty to take in the small space. “Nice.”

“It’s small, but it works for us,” she said, biting her tongue at the defensiveness. He’d just complimented the space, hadn’t he?

“Hmm,” was all he said, and stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. “Where’s the squirt?”

“Zach’s in his room, reading. He might come out, or not. He’s big on reading though, and when he goes into the zone, it’s hard to break.” She waited for some taunt, some egghead joke, something that she could take and mull over, something to make her not like him so much.

“Cool. Lucky you, getting a kid who likes reading.”

Dammit. Would the man stop being so damn perfect? With a frostier tone than was warranted, she pointed toward the kitchen. “Emergency numbers are on the fridge. He has an EpiPen in the medicine cabinet, which I put a Post-it Note on so you don’t have to dig for it. He knows how to administer it himself, but the instructions are on the box. If you have a minute and want to read through them, that would be great. I also put a list of his allergens on the fridge next to the numbers. He hasn’t eaten dinner yet, but he can make his own. Please don’t feed him anything from outside the house. If you’re hungry though, you can order a pizza or whatever. Just make sure he doesn’t get tempted and have any.” It was the same spiel she’d given all his babysitters since he was fourteen months old and popped positive on his first allergy test for, well, almost everything.

Graham looked offended, his dark eyes flashing. “I’m not ordering a pizza to eat it in front of him when he can’t have a slice. That’s cruel. I’ll have what he’s having.”

“You might regret that. It’s going to be sun butter and jelly on special, not-normal bread,” she warned. No matter what, she still couldn’t get used to non-peanut butters. But she ate them for her son’s sake. Too bad they were twice as expensive.

“I’ll make the squirt make me a sandwich. If he can eat it, I can eat it. Guys can eat anything.” Walking back to the door, Graham opened it. She tried hard not to notice how the short sleeve of his polo shirt gripped around his biceps when he did that. “Off you go. The menfolk will be fine.”