Page 75 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

“It’s my pleasure, and I mean that. I want to spend as much time with him as possible.” I also want to put Sadie first, make her life easier. She gave up a great job to raise Max, lost another opportunity recently. She has to choose now between her work and keeping a promise to our son. If she’s choosing work, her art website’s important to her, so it’s important to me. As is flirting with Sadie.

My body’s blocking us from my family’s view. Enough that I can covertly brush my finger down the side of her hand. “It’s also my pleasure spending time with you,” I say quietly. “Even if we’re not alone.”

A tiny sigh escapes her. “You were always a charmer, Desmond Bower.”

“No. I was an out-of-control braggart. Then I met you.”

“Total marshmallow,” she says.

With her I am. Problem with marshmallows is they burn easily, and I like standing close to flames. “In case you were wondering, I’ve relived last night’s goodbye kiss all day.”

The hungry swipe of her tongue against mine.

Her fingers dragging through my hair.

Her needy sounds and plump-soft lips.

“Des.” She’s trying to sound annoyed, but that red flush blotching her neck? The breathy tone of her voice? Not annoyed.

“Have you thought about kissing me?” I ask, pushing her, hopefully conjuring the image of me pressing her against her car door. “Or am I the only one fantasizing?”

She shifts, a subtle move from foot to foot. If I had to guess, I’d say her panties are getting wet. Now I’m picturing her stripped down, all her curves bared to me, and I nearly groan. But I keep myself contained. I’m not sure if pushing her to admit she’s relived last night’s kiss is working against me, the way mini-Freud Olivia told me pushing creates avoiding. I expect Sadie to brush me off, blow past me and my forwardness.

She gives me Saucy Sadie instead.

“I’ve thought about last night all day too.” She leans forward, shrinking the small space between us. “That kiss reminded me what it feels like to be a woman.”

She does blow past me then, not before she drags her fingertip along my abdomen, rendering me stupid.

TWENTY-THREE

Having Max all to myself is terrifying and exhilarating. His small hand is tucked in mine as we move from booth to booth, checking out watercolor landscape paintings and intricately carved pepper grinders. There’s a bit of everything on display from a variety of artists. Quilters. Painters. Leather crafters. Knitters. Jewelry designers. All a reminder of how vital the arts are to Windfall—this creative and open-minded community that spreads beauty and positivity through its work.

As fun as the art walk is, I’m on high alert, wary of the Windfallians who’ll remember me and make me look small in front of my son. Every time I recognize someone, I’m quick to maneuver, leading Max away from a possible ambush.

I’ve also barely let go of his hand.

This is the first time he’s openly displayed affection toward me in public—yes, I’m overwhelmed and addicted—and it’s busy here. I’ve seen one too many movies where a parent looks away for half a second, only to glance back and find their child gone. Max won’t become one of Olivia’s studied statistics. Not on my watch.

My other parenting skills, however, are clearly lacking. Max’s T-shirt is covered with finger streaks from the caramel-sauce-topped popcorn he ate. I didn’t think to grab napkins. He’s also hopping while he walks with a tad more energy than seems normal. I blame his sugar high and the tons of junk I’ve let him eat, when Sadie expressly said, “Don’t let him eat tons of junk food.” He was just so cute when he asked to have that second bag of homemade licorice, looking at me with those pleading, thick-lashed eyes. What kind of monster would say no to him? Plus, I assumed the “homemade” part negated the “junk” part.

Now he’s a jumping bean of energy.

“Oh my God.” He yanks on my hand and points to a table of brightly colored jewelry. “That’s Jasmine’s mom’s stuff.”

Max leads us to her booth and shrieks when he sees Jasmine. Jasmine shrieks back. She probably overdosed on homemade sugar too. She says something about Camila Cabello—shocker—and holds up a pair of iridescent earrings, flaunting them. Max does the same, pretending he’s wearing the dangling linked circles, swishing his head to show them off. Now I’m wondering how pissed Sadie will be if I take him to get his ears pierced.

“Desmond Bower?” says a guy from behind me.

Unsure who called my name, my facial muscles do that pinching thing I can’t control. “Mind watching Max for a minute?” I ask Jasmine’s mom.

When she agrees, I turn, and there’s another blast from my past. Kyle Jackson. Former running back on our high school football team and prom king. He has dark skin and piercing eyes and no doubt got the lowdown on my crash landing from golden boy to rusted Camaro driver. He’s holding out his hand to me, waiting on a shake.

I comply, expecting him to crush my hand in a show of overimportance. He gives my hand a friendly pump. “Heard you were in town.”

I rely on a trusty grunt.

Two women, who look familiar from high school, walk by. They blatantly stare at me and whisper to each other.