I turned to Tally, who was watching the cottage’s door, anticipating the return of our temporary neighbors. “Ready for dinner?”
It was almost six, and I was ready to eat my arm after skipping lunch to work on a sedan that a customer attempted to fix himself. Unfortunately, Mr. Fixit would be back, a regular who got his mechanic tips online.
My cell buzzed against my thigh, my hand sliding in to fish it out as it vibrated again. A pair of porn-worthy tits appeared on its screen — a message from Kaylie, the newest bartender at Greg’s.
She played hard to get, but as usual, after a handful of texts, her clothes fell right off.
I sent back a winking emoji before sliding the phone in my pocket. I needed to get food in me and some shuteye.
Friday would arrive in the morning, and so would its shenanigans.
Josie
“Lincoln David, if you don’t put that game away, it’s going in the bin!” I crossed my arms at the four-year-old, tired of staring at the top of his head through dinner.
By the bin, I meant the plastic prison the device remained in until he earned it back, generally through vacuuming. It was the one punishment I dreaded as a kid, so naturally, I used it on my child.
It was a constant reminder that I was slowly becoming my mother. If I weren’t careful, I’d marry a politician and start wearing pearls, too.
“But I’m winning, Mommy!” he objected with a scowl.
“Well, you can win again tomorrow,” I muttered. I spent money I didn’t have on takeout trying to make the most of our first night in Briar, and he still didn’t give me the time of day. “It’s dinnertime.”
“I don’t like this place,” he huffed, setting his tablet down. “It’s scary.”
The rental wasn’t as bright as our condo, but it wasn’t scary, per se. Frumpy was more fitting. The pale pink countertops were reminiscent of chewed bubble gum, while the worn metal cabinets screamed office-chic rather than chef-friendly. But with some decor, it would be cozy. Hopefully.
“It’s not scary, honey,” I assured, reaching out to pat his hand across the round table, the built-in nook another transplant from the early twentieth century. “Houses looked like this when Grams and Grandpa were little.”
His eyes flew wide as he paused mid-air with a fry. “They’re that old?”
I smirked. “Yeah, honey.”
Maybe they weren’t that old but close. Mrs. Sutton was born in the Jurassic, as she used to tell me. My parents were born in the Cretaceous in comparison.
“But it is scary here,” he grumbled, shoving the fry in his mouth. Disappointment stretched across his little face at its taste, the hunk of greasy potato nothing like the In-N-Out he adored.
“No, it’s not, Linc,” I replied, grabbing a sip of syrup-heavy soda. “New things always seem a little scary, but after a while, you get used to them, and everything is fine.”
I had to remind myself the same thing as I told him, the cross-country move frying my nerves. I hadn’t stepped foot in Maine in eleven years — let alone my home town. If anyone should have been freaking out, it was me.
But we had no family left in California after Scott’s parents retired to Acapulco, and Lincoln deserved to grow up with more than just me around. He had family in Briar who adored him, too.
“Can we get a dog now?” he asked, a slow smile emerging as he attempted to seize on the moment of parental weakness.
Luckily, I held firm, not falling for his adorable offense. “Once we get a house.”
It was the same line I uttered a hundred times since he started his canine quest a few months back. It was one I’d hoped he’d be over already.
I didn’t mind dogs, but I had enough on my plate. A kid. A cross-country move. A business. Not to mention a rental that was far from dog-friendly. It was barely kid-friendly.
“We’re in a house now.” He grabbed his cheeseburger, glaring defiantly before taking a bite.
“Yes, but we don’t have a fenced yard, honey. Dogs need space to run and play that’s safe. We can play with Aunt Liv’s dog. You remember, Mushu, right?”
He grinned, nodding excitedly. “I like Mushu.”
I was less of a fan. The pug always peed everywhere when she came along with Liv to our house in Ranchita. Once we moved to San Diego, my little sister stayed in a hotel during visits, a no-pets policy swooping in to save the day and my carpet.
“There was a dog at the neighbor’s,” he noted, reluctantly taking another nibble of his burger. “Can I play with it?”
I remembered the muscled pup standing next to its even burlier owner looking more like a bodybuilder than a dog despite its pink collar.
“I’m not sure, honey. We don’t know that man.”
He was easy on the eyes in the brief moments I saw him, standing tall with the wild man look women fawned over. I was more of a clean-cut fan, but I could appreciate a beard, especially with his tattoos and the long hair that kept it company.
“He can be our friend, right?”
“Maybe, honey,” I replied, not keen on promises. I didn’t know how long we’d be in the cottage, and making male friends was hardly a priority. Especially ones associated with that house. “Right now, we need to finish eating and figure out how to take a shower.”
I was already dreading the contraption that looked more like a torture device than a plumbing fixture.
“Will Daddy know where to find us tonight?”
“Of course, honey,” I said, taking a bite of rubbery potato. “Angels have GPS, remember?”
He frowned. “Grandpa said angels don’t visit people; they stay in heaven.”
A familiar flash of hot anger spread through my gut. “Sometimes, Grandpa gets confused.”
I wanted to say more but couldn’t, as a four-year-old didn’t need to hear every curse word in the English language. I
