Page 95 of Elevator Pitch

Only, said bedroom door opens and out walks the man himself. Suit pants and dress shirt on, but shirt untucked with only a few buttons near his waist fastened. His shoes are in his hand, socks tucked within them.

Laurel’s mouth falls open. She lifts her hand, twisting it at the wrist to point behind me.

“Mom.” Her voice is a strangled cry of shock, like she’s frozen by the sight of a great big hairy spider on the wall.

“Mom,” she repeats, not blinking.

“Mom.” She sounds like she did as an insistent child, as if she doesn’t have my full attention. “Ross Davis.”

I shift, glancing over my shoulder while Ross crosses the very short distance in my narrow kitchen from my open bedroom door to me. He presses a kiss to my shoulder.

“Mom. Ross Davis just came out of your bedroom.”

“I know.” I sigh, a little embarrassed. Not by Ross but by the implication of what might have happened in my bedroom when nothing happened in there. It happened in the living room. In my bedroom, we talked more about Harley and then kids in general as they reach adulthood.

Which Laurel is clearly displaying she hasn’t mastered, especially when she states in shock, “You’re Ross Davis.”

“I am.”

“Coach of the Chicago Anchors.”

“Yes,” he says, slipping a hand around my back and squeezing my hip.

“Hot silver fox,” she chokes.

“Uhm?” Ross chuckles.

“Laurel!”

“And you just came out of my mom’s bedroom.”

“Okay. I think Ross was just leaving and you and I can talk on the way to The Syrup Tap.”

“Isn’t that where you took Harley?” Ross asks, his voice close to my ear.

As I’m watching Laurel, her mouth gapes again before she says, “You went out with Harley Davis?”

For half a second, the announcement sounds like a reverse harem romance where the woman dates the dad and the son. Something I have no interest in doing, nor am I attracted to men young enough for me to be their mother!

“Laurel,” I say a bit sharply.

“I think I’ll let you explain that one.” Ross chuckles behind me, then kisses my cheek. “I should probably go.”

He steps away from me and addresses Laurel. “Nice to meet you.” He doesn’t offer a hand but tips up his chin. Laurel melts.

As Ross heads down the hallway leading to the front door, I hold up a finger to Laurel suggesting I want her to stay. Pinned to the hardwood floor, still in utter shock, I don’t think she’d move if I asked.

“Wait,” I call after Ross, quickly following him. He pauses near my front door and turns to face me. Lowering my voice, I ask, “What am I supposed to tell her?”

Ross stares at me a long minute. “Are you embarrassed by us?”

“No.” I choke. “I just thought you wanted to . . . not be public.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to be public?” His eyes widen and then narrow, suspicious. “Unless you don’t want to be public?”

The thought of Ross Davis being my dirty little secret is almost laughable. Who would I be hiding him from? He’s the one with fans and paparazzi.

Still, I don’t answer his question. I don’t know how, so I snap. “This was your sleeping arrangement.”