AllFreeNovel
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I open the cabinet and remove a third plate. I’ve lost my appetite, so there will be plenty food to go around.
The thud of a man’s footsteps in my safe place rock more than the flooring. Yes, Jacob is basically a man now, but my son’s steps are easy and happy-go-lucky—or at least were before the recent drama. The approaching strides are strong, self-assured, and direct.
John ambles back into my kitchen as if he belongs. How nice confidence like that must be.
Gone are his coat, his badge, his gun. His pressed dress shirt doesn’t hide the fact that he must be a regular at the gym, and the white fabric works with both his skin tone and his dark hair. It’s unbuttoned an extra notch and barely wrinkled from the day. Figures even his clothes toe the line.
With all the props gone, he looks almost human.
Hah.
He crosses his arms over his big chest and side-eyes me. “What?”
“Just thinking.” I spin, flip on the water, and start pumping soap into my hands. “It’s late. I assume you’ve eaten already?” Thanks to football practice, dinner comes late this time of year—which may be my saving grace.
“I have not. Smells good.”
Angling for an invitation? Why, I would have assumed he didn’t eat anything except puppies and kittens.
I snatch the towel off its ring. “You’re welcome to join us.”
The words are no sooner out of my mouth than I hear the front door. “Hey, Mom. I’m home. Whose sweet ride is that out front?”
“In here, Ja—”
The kitchen door swings in. Jacob, my son, my baby, freezes in the doorway. His wavy golden hair curls on his knotted forehead, an unfriendly frown fixing on John. “Who are you?”
My palm goes to the counter. “Jacob.”
John closes the gap, offering his hand. “John Chavez, a friend of your mom’s.”
Chavez.
Jacob’s nose wrinkles, his fist staying at his side. “I don’t think so.”
“Jacob! What is that supposed to mean?”
My son shrugs. “You never have people over.”
“I do too.” Once every other blue moon.
Another lifted shoulder. “Not men.”
“Well, I…” My face heats like a stove burner.
John’s eyes slide over me, only making the heat worse. Do my son’s words force him to recalculate his image? I don’t doubt I’m a cliché in his mind. His low opinion of diner waitresses and single moms is patently obvious.
Pull it together, woman!“Jacob, would you get three glasses with ice and water, please.”
Chest still puffed, he eyes John all the way to the cabinet.
“Hands,” I remind, then sort of want to recall the instruction. Yes, he should wash his hands, but I’m learning a lot these day about young men and their egos. I may get blasted later for babying him in front of another man. Thankfully, for now, he complies.
No single word sufficiently captures the awkwardness encompassing the small space. I give John points for the way he kicks back against the counter, taking the edge off his usual intensity. “You play football, huh? What position?”
Setting the glasses on the small table, Jacob eyes the intruder. “Tight end.”
John is already nodding. “Built like you are, that was going to be my guess. I played TE in high school myself.”
