Page 10 of Mr. B

She touched his shoulder briefly. “You’ll always be Weston to me.”

Chapter three

“It seemed more believable than a stork.”

Friday had finally arrived, and Cassandra had made it through the last three days, successfully avoiding Wes as much as possible. She was lost in thought as she drove through the light traffic on the way home.

Bailey nudged her. “Mom.”

“What?” She glanced at her daughter. “Did you say something?”

“I said that going out with Ian was a mistake.”

Cassandra patted Bailey’s hand. “I’m glad you finally realized that.”

“You knew it was a mistake and didn’t tell me?”

“If I had, it would’ve taken you longer to see it for yourself.”

Bailey sighed. “I hate being the daughter of a child psychologist.”

Cassandra laughed. “Sorry. We all make mistakes, especially when we’re young. I sure made a couple of…doozies.”

“Like what?”

“Let’s get home. I’m really glad it’s Friday.”

“You’ve only worked three days, and you’re already tired of your job?”

“No, of course not. That’s not what I meant. It’s a new job with different responsibilities and…” She turned onto their street. “What should we have for dinner?”

“Mom, you’re being weird. What’s going on?”

Cassandra pulled into the driveway. “Mr. Buchanan and I have…some history. But we’re working through it.” She opened her door, and Bailey put a hand on her arm.

“What kind of history?”

“Um…let’s go inside.”

Bailey followed Cassandra into the house, then dropped her backpack by the door. “Mom. What kind of history? Did you two work together before?”

“No.” Cassandra put down the old leather briefcase she’d inherited from her father, then removed her jacket and hung it on the coat rack. “Let’s see what we have in the refrigerator.”

Bailey trailed after Cassandra as she headed for the kitchen. “Oh my gosh, you dated him. When? Since you divorced Dad? Did you have an affair? Did you get divorced because—”

“Bailey! Goodness, stop. Take a breath. Nothing nearly that dramatic.”

“What then?”

Cassandra motioned toward the table. “Sit down.” She took a bottle of root beer from the refrigerator and set it on the table. “I suppose you’re old enough to hear this story.”

On Sunday morning, Wes sat at the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee, watching Frank pick through his breakfast. Frank was a pure white, twenty-pound Maine Coon with a severe attitude problem. He ate only one brand of cat food, with chicken broth poured over it.

Frank backed up from the bowl, sat, and looked over his shoulder at Wes.

“I’m not putting any more broth on it. You just need to deal with it.”

Frank scowled. When he first started scowling a few months ago, no one believed Wes when he told them. But once they saw it, there was no denying it. The cat could scowl.