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“And I’m Sheila. Sheila Wilder.”
A sudden rush of my pulse thundered in my ears, my hand hanging limply by my side when everything rushed into startling clarity.
Oh God.
This was his mother and his sister, and that was why her big, wide smile looked so familiar.
“You’re … Cameron’s mother?” I asked weakly.
Her eyes gleamed—knowing and brimming with maternal curiosity, and suddenly, I wanted to sprint away again.
“Most days, I’ll claim him, yes.” She opened up her arms. “Do you accept hugs for hellos?”
I swallowed, fighting the urge to shrink away from the nuclear blast of warm, maternal energy she emitted. I swear, I didn’t know how the hell to people at all, and it had never, ever been more clear.
Poppy nudged her with her elbow. “Mom, not everyone wants hugs.”
Sheila sighed. “I suppose.”
Instead, she shook my hand, but my fingers felt weak because holy hells bells, I made out with her son seven seconds after meeting him. It felt like my face was going to melt off from embarrassment because I swear she could read everything going on in my brain while she stood smiling at me the way she was.
Happy.
Excited.
Welcoming.
Right on the heels of that thought, Sheila gave me an appraising look.
“Do you have any plans for dinner tonight? We’d love to have you over, get you a home-cooked meal.”
I blinked. Then blinked again. My plans consisted of a deathly quiet hotel room and staring at the ceiling for hours before I finally fell asleep. Maybe a hot shower with inadequate water pressure just to break up the monotony. “I … I don’t, but?—”
“Wonderful,” she gushed. “Cameron can give you the address.”
I smiled. Sort of. It might have come out like a grimace because the thought of sitting across the dinner table from that man while his mother watched every interaction made me want to hook up an IV of pinot noir. “I appreciate the offer, but I really need to get some work done,” I finished lamely.
Poppy gave me a sympathetic smile, and I was ready to climb under the damn table. I’d pity me too, because honestly, who felt off-kilter at a friendly offer for a home-cooked meal?
Ivy freaking Lynch, apparently.
“Maybe she’s had enough of the boys on the jobsite and doesn’t want to see them any more than she has to, Mom,” Poppy interjected. “I can only guess how much of an ass Ian was.”
I wanted to laugh, but I swallowed it down. “He was fine.”
Sheila raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got a good poker face, young lady.”
Yeah, I’d been told that a time or two.
But what did people really mean when they said that?
It was uncomfortable not to know what someone was thinking just by looking at them. Wasn’t it so much easier when they were expressive—when their eyes showed excitement or wonder or worry or aggravation?
Hard to read was a nice way to say it.
Frigid was another.
It wasn’t like I wanted to be viewed that way. Of course, the world would always want the Sheila and Poppy Wilders, with their big smiles and kind offers.
