Page 84 of Elevator Pitch

“I’m sorry about your mom,” I say, knowing the words are inadequate compared to the permanent hole in his heart. “I lost my husband, and my girls have been raised by a single mom.”

Not certain why I tell him this information, Harley doesn’t seem disturbed by it, but breaks into an inquisition about my girls. Their ages, occupations, and locations, plus something unique about each of them.

“Laurel is just social.” I laugh as there isn’t any other way to describe what she enjoys. “She’s a good friend and I’d say going out on the town is her favorite activity. My Hannah loves baseball.”

Harley scrunches his nose again.

“Not a fan?”

“If it wasn’t forced down my throat, I might have been. I’m just not terribly athletic.”

Now, I’m not about to admit I checked out a nineteen-year-old, but his lean body has definition, which could be good genetics, but also a sign of some physical training.

Still, I don’t mention it.

“So, you don’t like sports?”

“I’m more of a bleacher fan. As in, I’ll go to a game if I must, and then I just want to have fun while I’m there.”

I smile. “Makes sense. Hannah primarily got her love of the game from my dad. He had season tickets to the Anchors and often took my girls to the games as a Grandpa-and-Girls day out. He’d load them up on peanuts, popcorn, and Cracker Jack—”

“Like the song,” Harley interjects before taking another bite of pancakes.

“Exactly. And then he’d bring them home all wired on junk food. But Hannah started picking up the game. The rules. The stats. The players and positions. She played softball as a kid.”

“And she’s the one in Milwaukee? Physical therapy major?” Harley confirms, showing he’s paying attention to the details.

I nod.

In all our discussion, the one thing Harley doesn’t ask me is how I met his father, and I’m grateful the topic doesn’t come up.

As he finishes scarfing up his pancakes, his phone rings and he glances up at me as the Darth Vader ring-tone blares between us.

“I should answer this.”

With my brows lifted, I respond. “Of course.”

“Dad?” Harley says into the phone, gingerly lifting it like his fingers are sticky from syrup and melted chocolate. His gaze leaps to me after a brief second. “I called because there was a strange woman in the house this morning.”

With his eyes still on me, he listens a second before speaking. “Yeah, that’s what she said. You are friends, but not friends-friends, not like the kind with benefits.”

My mouth falls open as my cheeks heat.

His brows crease deeply at something his father says, listening intently another minute before he defends, “I didn’t kick her out. She took me out for pancakes.”

He winks at me, like we share a secret.

“Actually, I’m with Vee right now,” Harley clarifies. He listens another second before muttering. “Yeah, you too.” Then he hangs up.

Glancing at me, he says, “Dad wants you to call him ASAP.” Sarcasm drips from his voice.

Slowly, I smile, wondering what his father might have said, but then again, I’m not going to pepper a teenager with my curiosity.

“So, Darth Vader?” I nod toward the phone face down on the table.

Harley shrugs, falling back against the booth seat, his chocolate pancakes mostly decimated but now no longer of interest.

“Yeah, it feels appropriate.”