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I smile as I watch the kids play together while I wash dishes, my window pleasantly shaded from the blistering evening sun on the east side of the house.
Out there, it’s hot as blazes and more humid than Satan’s underpants in…well, in Texas in July. So I’d better make sure they’re hydrated. Honestly, I wish I had their energy. Football practice, then the pool, then basketball. I’m exhausted just watching them.
After I finish the dishes, I grab several bottles of water from the fridge and haul them outside.
When I get to the driveway, however, I notice five people playing instead of four. And one of them has more facial hair than any of the boys combined and towers over everyone else like the Incredible Hulk.
Beau.
My heart thumps.
I pause, resting my back against the red oak, and watch for a minute. What is he doing here? And how did he know where we live? The answer to the second question is probably from the staff directory, the same place he found my phone number.
The answer to the first question is likely a teensy bit more complicated than the second.
The air is thick out here, so I clutch the cold water bottles to my chest and try to school my face, so I’m not reacting to Beau’s body.
Damn, that body. Thank god he got rid of that stupid tweed jacket. Now that he’s dressed more appropriately for this climate in Air Jordans, track shorts, and an A&M Aggies tee shirt, I’m offended that he should look so good in it. That look takes zero effort, and still, his round butt looks good enough to nibble.
At the perfectly wrong moment, Beau sees me. He locks his eyes on mine for a nanosecond too long, and one of Micah’s friends steals the ball from him. He also takes an elbow to the ribs and tumbles to the concrete.
I gasp and fling myself forward. “Watch out for his knee!”
“Whoa, sorry, man!” The boy that elbowed him offers him a hand to get back to his feet. Beau winces. The rest of the boys back away, thinking Beau’s about to limp off the court.
He’s got a strange expression as he looks at me, his hand grasping his lower back. “Can I get you an icepack?”
“Mom,” I hear Micah mutter in embarrassment. Because offering an injured celebrity a cold compress is the most wrong thing a mom could do in the presence of a fifteen-year-old.
Beau winks.
What in the world is he up to?
That becomes clear when he suddenly steals the ball back, runs to the basket, jumps, and sinks a layup. The boys erupt in peals of laughter and applause. I roll my eyes but smile as Beau saunters over to where I’m standing under the tree. It’s only when he’s turned away from the boys that I see him wince slightly.
“Mom, can I go get a snow cone with the guys?”
The new snow cone truck downtown is fun but oddly expensive, with flavors such as salted-caramel coconut for six bucks. I grimace. “Not until payday, you know that.”
“I can use my birthday money.”
“Micah, you’re not going to be able to save for a new game system by blowing your cash on snow cones and crap,” I remind him.
“Ugh! Mom!” Micah grouses through his teeth as if his friends haven’t already figured out that I’m a total square and a tightwad.
Beau then turns, pulls out a wallet that looks like he made it at summer camp, and hands over a stack of bills to my son. “Oh, no. That’s not necessary, Beau. I…”
But nobody hears me. The boys are halfway down the street, and I’m here. Alone with Beau.
Sweat drips down his forehead. Beau blots it away with the hem of his shirt, lifting it just long enough for me to gape at his stomach. Strong but deliciously soft in places, as it should be for a man in his 30s who doesn’t play pro football anymore.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.
He tilts his head and inches closer to me. I back up, resting against the tree again, looking up at him.
“Yeah, I did.”
“What are you doing here, Beau?”
