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So I had to find a way to get more familiar with it.
Which meant time alone.
Which also meant reorganizing Lily’s dolls—which she hated doing—changing around Jack’s room—which he barely noticed—and sorting out my clothes while studiously avoiding Ranger’s side of the closet.
Then I’d go into the backyard, picking up the rogue toys. Did a little gardening. Made fresh lemonade for when the kids came home. Scones to go with it.
That was another thing I was getting really good at.
Making sure the kids had some kind of treat waiting for them whenever they came home. Fresh baked scones with homemade jam. Cookies. Bread. Lemonade. A new room layout.
Like I could distract them with baked goods and maybe they wouldn’t notice that their dad wasn’t coming home.
It was just as I was putting scones in the oven that the lawn mower started. It gave me a fright, since I’d been doing all my tasks in silence. I didn’t like music anymore. Too many possible encounters with a song that meant something to me. That had meant something to us.
Silence was much safer.
It shouldn’t have been surprised that he was there. He’d been doing this every Sunday for almost two months. The kids had even gotten used to him. Last Sunday, Lily had insisted we bring him milk and cookies, despite the fact that the last thing he probably wanted after mowing the lawn in the heat was a glass of milk. Nonetheless, he took them with grace, charming Lily. Like he often did, Jack had just watched the encounter with a stony expression that reminded me of his father so much I’d locked myself in the bathroom and sob for five minutes.
But then the lawn mower broke down. Kace disappeared for a few then came back with a part. By then, Jack was out in the yard, inspecting the mower like he thought it was his job to fix it.
When Kace arrived back, Jack’s stony expression returned. But Kace invited him to help, and my young son was just far too curious to just walk away.
So Kace taught Jack about the inner workings of a lawn mower.
Apparently, he’d promised to teach him about cars next—with my permission, of course.
Jack had recounted all of this, since I had made an art of avoiding the man since the girl’s night and Isabella’s birthday. Avoiding him meant avoiding whatever feelings I had toward him, so that’s what I did.
Jack hadn’t had a stony expression when he’d begged me to let Kace show him how he was rebuilding a car he had in his garage. I wanted to say no. Really fucking badly. Mostly because my feelings were getting in the way, but mostly because the thought of Kace spending time with my son, charming him further, scared me.
Also a little bit because it made me angry. Furious. That offer. He was practically a stranger, offering my son things his father should've been teaching him. Things he never would.
Which was why I said yes.
Sure, Jack would have plenty of male role models in his life of the badass, alpha male variety. Men able to teach him how to be a badass alpha if he so wished.
But those men also had families of their own.
Who was I to deny Jack one more positive influence?
And, inexplicably, I trusted Kace. It was irresponsible to trust a man I barely knew, especially with my children. Maybe that made me a bad mother, but I had to trust my instincts. I had nothing else.
So, next week, Jack was going over to Kace’s to help with the car.
It was after I pretended not to watch him out the window that I decided if I was sending Jack off to spend time with him, it was my responsibility to get to know him a little more. Make sure he wasn’t some crazy murderer.
Which probably shouldn’t have been my criteria, since most of my son’s positive influences were either crazy, murderers or both.
I took a deep breath as I opened the door. Kace’s eyes went straight to me, walking back from the garage where he’d stored the mower. It had become somewhat of a routine. He never tried to approach the house, but always interacted with the kids when they came out to talk to him.
I had not come out to talk to him.
So he definitely looked surprised to see me. Probably more so the beers in my hand. But his gaze didn’t focus on the beers. No, they lingered on my legs, my denim cutoffs smudged with dirt from the garden suddenly feeling far too short.
This was a bad idea.
A very bad idea.
But it was too late now.
“You dangling those in front of me as a form of torture?” he asked, eyes teasing.
It’s too late to back out now, I told myself again. Throwing the bottles at him and sprinting back into my house would totally cement me as the crazy woman.
