“I’d prefer you be very late. Tucker will be asleep soon, anyway.”
Julia frowns, her eyes welling with tears.
“Babe, it will be fine. My mom raised me, and if she can wrangle this hellion, she can handle our angel baby for an evening,” David says, kissing Tucker’s forehead.
“But your ankle—” she tries.
“Is fine. I sprained it; I didn’t break it. And Tucker is a baby. Again, he’ll be asleep soon.”
Julia pouts, and David and I share a look as he wraps his arm around her waist to comfort her.
“Oh! By the way, I think we might have found you a car, Mom,” he says, tucking Julia into his side. “It’s a little more than insurance gave you, but—”
“David,” I warn.
He holds up his hands. “But we are happy to cover the rest, especially since it’s a great deal.”
I glare at him, that icky, familiar goop of guilt and burden slicking my gut. It’s the same thing I feel any time I think of how Josh still has to help me pay the bills here, how he will pay me alimony once the papers are signed.
It’s like being a slave.
And I’m reminded again why getting my degree is so important to me — because freedom waits for me inside that curled piece of paper with my name on it.
“Mom, please,” David pleads. “We want to help.”
“We do,” Julia says. “You’ve helped us so much throughout the years, especially when we were young and broke, and even now with Tucker. You’re the most involved out of all the grandparents.”
That warms my heart, and I boop Tucker’s nose with a smile. Then, I sigh, looking back at my son.
“Stubborn just like me,” I muse. “I don’t know whether to be upset or proud.”
David smiles, leaning in to kiss my cheek before he puts his arm around Julia. “I plan to look at it next weekend. It belongs to an older gentleman who’s moving up north. He might need it through the holiday, though. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Fine. For now, please, for the love of God, just go have fun,” I say, pushing them toward the door. “And you’re not allowed back before midnight. I mean it.”
“Midnight?!” Julia’s eyes widen.
“No exceptions. Now get.”
Another push, a whimper from Julia and a chuckle from David, and they’re out the door.
I wait at the window and wave little Tucker’s hand at them as they pull away, and then I sigh, reaching into my pocket and texting Greg that he can come over.
My stomach flips like a pancake when I do
Greg texts back instantly that he’s on his way, and as a smile curls on my lips, Tucker makes a sweet baby noise and touches his hand to my cheek — which is, no doubt, red and warm.
I cover his hand there, leaning into the touch. “Yes, grandma is in trouble. Can you say trouble?”
Of course, he can’t, but he smiles a bit and makes a noise back at me, which gets him a kiss, anyway.
I busy myself with tidying up the house and letting Tucker play with some mushy vegetables in his highchair as I wait for Greg. Every step is worse than the last — and not from my sprained ankle, but from my sore ass after all the stairs we climbed.
Still, I smile and laugh and play with Tucker until his eyes start to droop, and after a quick wash of his face and a diaper change, I lay him in his playpen by the couch.
Just like I suspected, he passes out in a matter of minutes.
I’m just covering him with a blanket when Greg knocks at the door, not waiting for a response before he lets himself in.
I hold a finger up to my lips, pointing down to my sleeping grandson. Greg nods in understanding, smiling as he shimmies his way through the door and does his best to keep the bags in his hands quiet. He stops by the side of the playpen, looking down at Tucker with a curious look on his face.
“He’s cute, isn’t he?” I say softly.
“Adorable,” Greg agrees, and he frowns a bit before tilting his head. “He looks just like David.”
My heart squeezes, and I note Tucker’s long nose, his auburn hair, his big ears that I love to tug on to make him laugh — just like I did with David’s.
I smile. “He does, doesn’t he?”
Quietly, I take a bag from Greg’s hands, and he carries the others, following me into the kitchen. I unpack three giant packs of Halloween candy while he pulls out popcorn and wine from his.
I hold up one of the enormous things. “I hope you have a healthy candy appetite, because there’s enough here to feed a preschool.”
“I wasn’t sure if we were going to entertain any trick-or-treaters,” he says with a grin.
“Oh, hell no. I turned the porch light off. It’s movie night and I’m not letting any little brats mess that up for me — no matter how cute they’re dressed.”
He barks out a laugh at that, pouring me a glass of wine and sliding it across the counter. “How’s your ankle?”
I look down at the still-swollen limb. “It’s been better, but it’s not as painful as it was last night.”
“Have you been icing? Elevating? Resting?” He adds emphasis on that last one.
I smirk. “Yes, Doctor.”
Something washes over Greg’s face then, taking any hint of a smile with it. His eyes heat, like hearing me call him doctor sparked a carnal part of him to life.
He swallows, turning toward the counter. “Should I make the popcorn now?”
I shake my head, smiling like nothing happened. “Oh, why not. Let’s get buttered and sugared up properly.”
Greg works on opening the popcorn box, pulling out a bag and popping it into the microwave. I lean a hip against the counter and watch him, sipping my wine and taking in the view.
And I don’t mean the Halloween candy.
He must have showered before coming over, his hair still a little damp, the fresh scent of his body wash more potent than the popcorn. My eyes travel the length of him, taking in the plain black t-shirt hugging his biceps, tapering at his waist, and leading me down to those blessed sweatpants.
The iron gray fabric is thick and warm — that much I can tell without even touching it. The thick hem wraps around his waist just right, fastened with a black shoelace tie, the rest of it hanging off his hips in that delicious way that makes women go a bit crazy in the fall.
Everyone thinks we just love pumpkin spice everything, when really…
I bite the inside of my lower lip as my eyes trail down over his ass, cataloging every firm curve, but when he turns around, the bulge that appears in the same line of view makes me choke on my wine.
“You okay?” Greg asks as I fight to catch a breath, reaching for a napkin to wipe my chin with.
“Fine,” I manage, and before his hand can reach my back to soothe me, I wiggle away. “Going to find a movie.”
With that excuse, I duck out of the kitchen and into the safe zone of the living room, smacking myself in the forehead on the way.
“Son’s friend, Amanda,” I whisper-yell at myself. “He’s a kid.”
Except he’s not — not anymore.
That eighteen-year-old I stupidly kissed when I was thirty-one is now all grown up, tall and stout and manly. His boyish features are dead and gone, replaced with a chin covered in stubble, eyes that crinkle a bit at the edges when he smiles, a chest like a whiskey barrel, and abs no young man could achieve — complete with a dashing of hair, if I remember right from when he was sprawled under my sink.