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Monroe hummed the iconic morning wakeup-ad tune, but given all the various brands of coffee, it was rather remarkable he hit the right one on the first try.
“That’s the one. How did you know?”
“That ad campaign has been around since my childhood, and my mom used to hum all the time. Commercials. TV theme songs. Cheesy kid songs. Certain tunes will always take me right back to her in the kitchen, humming while washing dishes or making brownies. She made great brownies.” His tone turned distant, and my heart twisted. Damn it. I was good with Monroe turning me on. And okay, in theory, with us being friends, but I didn’t want to care. But every time we hung out in the same space, every story he shared, and every sentimental look that crossed his face all increased the risk he posed to my feels.
“She sounds pretty wonderful.”
“She was.” Monroe quirked his mouth, and damn it, here came more of those feels. “I wish…”
“Go on.” Apparently, I was actively courting the same emotional attachment I should be running from. Monroe wanted to be friends, and even that might be a stretch, an offer born of awkward post-orgasm guilt.
“It’s silly, but I wish I could go back and ask her what she knew about Aunt Henri and hear her stories about Aunt Henri and the so-called cousin. I know Mom was Aunt Henri’s favorite niece, but I was too young to ask many questions. Sometimes I wonder about all the stories I missed out on.”
Well, that did it. Unwanted feelings cascaded over me, sure as a can of paint and equally hard to clean up. There was only one thing to do. Leaving my empty plate on the ladder, I crossed the room to hug a very startled Monroe from behind. I ended up with a smear of primer on my arm, but hell if I cared.
“Don’t look shocked.” My voice came out too gruff. “We’re friends. Friends hug.”
“Thank you.” To my utter amazement, he leaned into the hug. “I’ve talked about Mom more today than in years.”
“Tell me more.” I released him rather than push my luck. “It’s not the stories you never got to hear. It’s the ones you get to keep and share.”
Monroe’s face scrunched up with concentration. “She gave me my first flattened penny. Cross-country drive from one base in California to another duty station in Florida. Dad had to report earlier, so it was just the two of us in our old station wagon. Cliché oldies on the whole trip. When I hear certain songs play, I swear I can smell truck exhaust, and my skin gets sticky like summer in Texas with poor air conditioning.”
“I like her already.” I gave him an encouraging smile. I wanted every damn story he was willing to share. “So, she liked blue, the oldies, and was brave enough to drive alone with her kid to a new state. What else?”
“She didn’t like chicken. Never met a berry she didn’t love. And we probably tried most of the ice cream places along our trek that summer. She loved strawberry ice cream, but she’d let me get whatever wacky flavor I wanted.”
“Dessert.” After slapping my thigh, I started cleaning up the wallpaper and painting mess.
“Pardon?” Monroe was so darn cute when he was confused. And I loved that he didn’t cover his confusion with bravado like so many men would.
“I’m taking you for dessert.” I squeezed his shoulder as I passed him. “Finish that section, then we’re going to Dairy Mart on the other side of town. It’s June. One of the specials is strawberry shortcake-flavored ice cream.”
“Aunt Henri loved that one too.” Monroe’s tongue darted out as if he could taste a decades-old flavor. And damn, I wanted to kiss him again. Instead, I busied myself with getting rollers ready to clean as he continued, “Guess she and Mom had that in common. Wonder if they still have that fluffernutter flavor—the banana-peanut butter-marshmallow one.”
“Only one way to find out.” I grinned at him. “First scoop is on me.”
“I should change shirts.” Nose wrinkling, he looked down at his T-shirt. “Funny. I’d forgotten, but Mom was always casual: T-shirts and shorts and sundresses. But after she died, my dad made a point that I looked neat and clean, especially if I was leaving the house. Couldn’t risk people gossiping that we weren’t coping.”
“You lost your mom. You could have worn the same shirt for a month, and people would have forgiven you.”
“Possibly.” He shrugged. “But my dad was a huge believer in appearances and routine. Showers. Laundry day. Fresh clothes. Anything to keep grief at bay.”
“Well, I think your shirt is perfect as is.” I kept my tone light, but inside, my internal soundtrack had shifted to a ballad about hopeless crushes. The shirt wasn’t the only thing perfect. Monroe, with his ease of following directions, tender heart, and wounded soul, was catnip for my inner caretaker. I did favors for everyone, took care of all those I held close, but the one thing I truly wanted for myself was Monroe. I might be younger, but I wanted to wrap him up, keep him safe. Damn it. Being friends was going to do me in.
