I clap my hands over my ears like a scandalized child. “Please don’t.”
Her laugh is over the top. “You are many things, but a prude isn’t one of them.”
I’m certain my eyes are blown wide. “I don’t want to hear about my mom’s private affairs.”
A palm flutters to her chest. “Oh, Ford. You make me sound so classy. I like that. But listen, if you take the time to really get—”
And that’s my cue to get the fuck out of this nightmare. I stand, almost toppling the chair over in my haste. “Nope, nah, not doing this.”
“Wimp,” she mutters.
I bend and place a quick kiss on the crown of her head. “Call me whatever you want. I’m outta here.”
“I expect more details and soon.” Her giggle follows me to the door.
“Good luck with that. There’s no woman and never will be.”
“Oh, Ford. Don’t bother lying to me. I’m certain you’ve already met her.”
I stumble over the rug, narrowly missing a full-on faceplant. Once again, her suspicions are spot on. How the hell do I prove her wrong when she’s exactly right?
Healing Hug #13: When a shoulder to lean on isn’t quite enough.
I ease off the brake so my car can crawl forward a few inches in the drop-off line. These unstructured bouts of time used to be a blessing—a slice of quiet before the chaos is every parent’s dream. But now, as I sit and wait to reach the unloading zone, my idle mind ambles into enemy territory.
There aren’t enough days in a week to move past the destruction known as Crawford Doxe. Each second that ticks by is a curse I can’t escape. My body has become a traitor, demanding actions I refuse to take. Regret has been consuming me, swirling in my belly on a constant basis. But more potent than that is the burning desire for a repeat performance. The latter is what takes all of my energy to stave off.
My good intentions don’t stand a chance against the cravings for Crawford’s wicked smirk and sinful moves. Why does he have to be so incredible in the sack? And stupid-hot? The type of good looks that make women lose touch with reality, their integrity, and common sense. Yeah, he’s beyond a menace. What’s worse than a blob of putty melting in his palm? Whatever it is, that’s me. And I need to stop obsessing over this.
“Mama?”
The twinkling tune knocks me out of my intrusive musings. Crap, I’m busted. These wandering thoughts need to quit. I adjust the rearview mirror to get a full glimpse of Millie. “Yeah, sweetie?”
“You’re frowning again.” She’s wearing one of her own.
I shove the rest of the murky distractions away, pasting on the widest grin and feeling guilty I’ve worried her. “I’m always sad for you to leave me.”
My daughter wrinkles her nose. “There’s something else bothering you.”
No secret there. Double crap. She isn’t aware of my additional interactions with Crawford, obviously, and that’s how this secret scandal shall remain. It would probably break her heart to discover the not-so-shiny knight could hurt her mama’s feelings. I refuse to be the one who reveals his true nature. That doesn’t mean I need to encourage the obsession, though. I’m banking on Crawford fading into the distant past soon enough.
To be fair, finding out her mother is responsible for half of the blame won’t bode well either. When she asked about my night out, I glossed over the hours spent away from her. She pestered me a bit, mostly about a certain mechanic, but let the topic drop when I kept my lips sealed. I’ll be adding that evening to the list of debauchery she’ll never be aware of. Distraction is the key to my well-meaning ploy. The rapidly approaching summer break is a great trick, too.
“Do your teachers have anything fun planned for the final week?” I discreetly cross my fingers that another nature walk isn’t on the list. Losing my daughter in the woods should be enough to veto that field trip in the foreseeable future.
“There’s a talent show tomorrow,” Millie whispers.
I let my jaw hang loose. “What? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Because.”
“Did you try out? Is there something I need to sign? Do you need a costume?” I tick off the questions with my fingers.
“No, Mom.” Her tone bangs against the back of my seat, vibrating the cushion.
I wince. “Whoa, Miss Priss. What’s the deal?”
“Being on stage in front of everyone is my worst nightmare.” Sometimes she sounds ten years beyond her seven. My sweet little girl.
“Okay, Mills. That’s just fine. Are you okay?”
Her gaze is pointed out the window. “I’ll be better once school is out.”
“Is someone bothering you?”
She traces an imaginary pattern on the glass. “Just the usual.”
Her muted voice scratches at the softest, most delicate parts of me. The anxiety and stress she is feeling stacks on my shoulders in wide bricks. I don’t want to prod too hard when the topic has been discussed at length. My daughter isn’t a social butterfly, and that’s perfectly fine. “You’ll tell me if it’s something serious?”
“Uh-huh, sure. Are you working with Josey today?”
I let her off the hook. If anything extreme is going on, I’m counting on her teacher to tell me. “Yup, sure am. I’m meeting her at Steeped once you scurry that cute little bootie inside.”
Millie groans. “Mom, don’t be embarrassing.”
The gasp I release is mock to the extreme. “Me? Never. Plus, you’re still young enough to believe I’m the coolest person ever. We can review that concept once you’re thirteen and truly think I’m ridiculous.”
“You’re being silly,” she murmurs.
And my baby is growing up too fast. This grumpy goof is going to need ice cream later. Or that other surprise I’ve been holding out on. “You cannot start the pre-teen drama yet. Not
