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“You look like bloody hell.”
“So you said.”
“I can’t wait, then.”
Cain wondered if he was going to regret asking Dax to come back to the U.S. He’d forgotten how annoying his riddles were.
“I said I can’t—”
“I know what you said Dax, but what the hell did you mean?”
Dax laughed and settled back into his seat. “I can’t wait to meet the woman who’s managed to tie your underknickers in a knot.”
Chapter 25
Maggie dried the last of the supper dishes and put them away. She placed the damp dish towel over the drying rack and glanced around her small kitchen. A crystal vase of purple tulips so dark they appeared black stared back at her from the table. They’d been a gift from Cain.
The table had been set for two tonight—the first time in the last several nights. She hadn’t heard a word from him since he left this morning, but maybe it was for the best.
She sighed and glanced down the hall toward the bathroom. The shower had stopped. “Michael, make sure you brush your teeth. I left clean pajamas on your bed.”
His answer was muffled, and from the sound of it, his mouth was full of toothpaste. She wandered into the living room, tossed a magazine into the rack beside the sofa, and stared out the window. The sun was still bright, even though it was nearing nine in the evening.
She spied Luke out front, bringing his garbage cans back in from the road, and swore under her breath. “Dammit!” She’d been in a daze this morning and had forgotten to put hers out. She wrinkled her nose. With this heat, her little shed out back was going to smell. Huge.
“All done, Mom.”
Maggie turned and walked over to her son, doing the inspection dance as she checked behind his ears, sniffed his hair, and eyed his fingernails. He giggled. “Do I pass?”
She brushed his damp hair back and kissed his forehead. “With flying colors. Good job, sir.” Maggie gave him a hug. “Twenty minutes and then bed, all right?”
He nodded and plunked himself on the sofa. “Mom?”
Here it comes. Maggie’s gut tightened. “Hm?”
“How come Cain didn’t come for supper? He loves your cucumber salad.”
She pasted a smile to her face and shrugged. “He was busy, honey. He had to go and pick up a musician friend of his.” She watched his face closely. Her son was smart and didn’t miss much.
“Dax Jones?”
“Yes, I think that’s his name.”
“Cain told me he’s from across the pond and that he speaks funny.” His forehead furled. “Like David Beckham.”
“He’s British, sweetie, so yes, he’ll have an accent.”
“Oh.” He shifted a bit. “Did I tell you Cain asked me to play with him in the charity football game? It’s supposed to be father and son, but”—Michael shrugged—“he said it didn’t matter. We’re going to be on the same team with Tommy and his dad.”
“Yes, I think you mentioned that a couple hundred times.”
As one of the fundraiser events, a charity football game had been organized, with a host of alumni and their children. It was to take place in the afternoon on the Fourth, just after the parade.
“Tommy’s dad said that Cain was a really good football player, like he could have gone to the NFL and everything!”
“Really,” she murmured, sliding onto the sofa beside him.
“Yep.” Michael nodded. “Tommy’s dad said Cain has the Midas touch, whatever that is, and that he’s one lucky son of a—” Her son’s face froze, and then he giggled. “Well, you know what I mean.”
