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But it had been a wrong number, so maybe it wasn’t too big a deal. It hadn’t been some boyfriend calling or a family member. Nothing that could cause any problems. Maybe he should just mention it to her, and they could laugh off the mix-up. It was a weird enough call.
The guy had wanted a Sasha … who he’d reserved at eight and had on speed dial … and would get charged minutes for.
He snorted when all the information locked together. Shit, had he intercepted some random 900-number call? Hilarious. Oakley would get a kick out of that.
Oakley hustled up to the booth, a frantic edge to her movements. “We’ve got to go.”
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
“I just saw what time it is. I can’t believe we’ve been here that long.” She reached for her purse, which she’d left on her seat. “I have to get back home—like now.”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” Pike said, pulling money from his wallet to toss on the table. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed either.
“Tessa said she’d cover this. I have the company card.”
“No, it’s fine. You’re in a hurry. I’ve got it.” He scooted out of the booth.
Oakley’s phone rang again. Private Caller flashed on the screen.
Oakley’s gaze darted toward it, slight panic crossing her face. She swiped the phone from the table. “Crap, I need to take this. Sorry, I’ll be right back.”
“But—”
She turned in a flurry and put the phone to her ear, leaving Pike standing there in confusion. But before she got far enough away, he heard the hello, the name Sasha, and the utterly cock-hardening downshift in her voice.
He plunked back down in the booth.
What.
The.
Hell.
SIX
“Mom … Mom … MOM!”
Oakley jolted awake, almost rolling off the couch, and blinked in the bright lamplight. “Huh, what?”
Wispy threads of her dream clung to her brain like spiderwebs—something where Pike was sweaty and shirtless, like that photo of him drumming but with no drums involved.
“Why are you sleeping?” Reagan asked. Oakley’s vision cleared and she stared up at Reagan’s big, worried eyes. “It’s only six thirty. Are you sick?”
Oakley yawned and sat up. “Oh, no. I’m sorry, baby. I’m fine. I guess that show was just really boring.”
Little frown lines appeared around Reagan’s mouth—her thinking face. Reagan didn’t like when things didn’t go according to her expected schedule. A few years ago, something like Mom falling asleep before bedtime would’ve probably freaked Reagan out enough for a tantrum. But thankfully, they’d moved past the tantrums with age and the help of Reagan’s therapists. Her little girl was learning to cope in quieter, more effective ways. High-functioning. That’s what went on all the reports now.
Oakley th
anked the universe every day for those simple words. It was far beyond what she’d hoped for when she’d brought her mute three-year-old into a clinic and they’d given her the autism diagnosis. At twenty, Oakley had barely been keeping her head above water with single motherhood. The word autism had felt like a death sentence for them both. How was she going to handle something that big on her own?
But she had. They had. Her and Rae together. Day by day. Hour by hour. Sometimes in the worst times, minute by minute. Now she had her smart, quirky, beautiful eleven-year-old girl to show for it. They’d both learned how to work with each other and how to accommodate the needs Reagan still had. Not every day was a good day, but they far outweighed the bad now.
“What have you got there?” Oakley asked, noticing the papers clutched in Reagan’s hand.
“Did you write these?” She held the pages up like an accusation.
Oakley rubbed her eyes and leaned closer. The handwritten title “Dandelion” stared back at her. Crap. “Where’d you find those?”
