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Grace pressed her lips together in amusement.
Grumbling, Bob pushed himself up from the couch, giving Grace a peck on the cheek before he clapped his son on the shoulder. “Night, Jake. As proud as we are of your hotshot life, it’s always good to have you home.”
Grace watched curiously as the same odd expression went across Jake’s face that she’d seen on the porch earlier that afternoon.
Bob trailed after Nancy, and neither Jake nor Grace moved until the creaking of the stairs stopped, followed by the click of a bedroom door.
“Finally,” Jake muttered as he and Grace wandered into the kitchen.
“They’re great,” Grace said, leaning on the counter and watching him polish off the pie.
“Uh-huh. If by great you mean prying, interfering, and being all-around pains in the ass. I specifically asked them not to read my stuff.”
“If Jamie was a big-shot journalist writing about her personal life, would you read her stuff?”
“Hell, yes! Jamie has horrible relationship sense.”
“Unlike you and that … what was that model’s name? She sure was nice.”
He picked at a flake of pie crust. “Sure. But now I have you.”
“Only till the end of the month,” she said quickly. Playfully.
Grace 2.0 gave her a reluctant, praising pat on the head.
He nodded. “Right. Only till then.”
Grace ignored the pang. “So, you want to show me your ’hood?”
Jake gave her a pitying look. “Are you trying to be hip right now?”
“Is it working?”
“Not even remotely close. You ready to go?”
“Sure … where we going?”
“Not here, Brighton.” He pointed his finger, sweeping it in a circle to encompass the whole kitchen. “My mother has ears everywhere.”
“And I take it we’re planning on doing something she wouldn’t approve of?”
His smile was wicked. “Definitely.”
* * *
“Wow, your old school. How romantic.”
“Heather Tanner used to think so,” he said as he put the car in park in the deserted corner of the school parking lot near what looked to be the baseball fields. “Nobody liked to park here because of the trees. Bird shit everywhere. But it makes a nice hiding spot from the main road at night.”
“And you came here to … study?”
“Of course,” he said, strumming his fingers on the steering wheel and looking a little nostalgic as he took in the darkened landscape of his high school. “They redid the backstop.”
“Did you play?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I was all right. Good enough to be their starting shortstop. Smart enough to know nothing would ever come of it.”
“Do you miss it?”
