Living with her is interesting too. If chaos descends, you can bet Stella is at the center and relishing it. She likes pushing buttons and testing boundaries, and we have been at our wits’ end with her on several occasions over the past few years, but she seems to have moved past that destructive rebellious phase. Her bedroom is like a bomb site and way messier than the boys’ rooms. Something neat-freak West always teases her about. I don’t bother calling her out on it anymore. I just close the door and ignore the chaos. She’s almost seventeen. Old enough to tidy her own shit.
Since Curtis’s big promotion and accompanying salary increase, I hired a lady to come in to clean and do laundry once a week. I work full-time and run the household and the kids almost single-handedly now, so I refuse to feel guilty for hiring some help. Ruthie is a godsend, and there is nothing like coming home on a Friday, after a long working week, to a sparkling house and an empty laundry basket.
“Why don’t the boys have to help?” Stella whines, dumping the cooked carrots in the strainer.
“The boys will clean up after dinner. You know the drill.” Whoever cooks and preps doesn’t have to clean up and vice versa. The kids know the rules. I’m all for equality in this house, and I have tried to instill the right values in my children. The rest is up to them.
“Where’s Dad?” Ridge asks, ambling into the kitchen from outside, traipsing muck all over my pristine kitchen floor.
I glance at the clock on the wall over the window with a frown. “He should be on his way home now. I’ll text him.” I pluck my cell off the window ledge and tap out a quick message to my husband while I tell my youngest son to go wash up for dinner. Hushed conversation filters in from the hallway, and butterflies race from my stomach to my chest. I wet my lips and fight a fresh wave of anxiety as footsteps approach. “Put the vegetables into bowls and cover them,” I instruct my daughter, hoping she doesn’t hear the slight tremble in my voice. “We’ll keep everything warm in the oven until Daddy gets here,” I add as my phone pings with a message from Curtis confirming he’s just leaving the golf club.
I’m cleaning mud off the floor when West and Vander step into the kitchen. My palms are clammy around the handle of the mop, and blood rushes to my head, making me a little woozy. It feels as though all the oxygen has been sucked from the room, and every hair on my body lifts in potent awareness. I’m not sure I have ever felt someone’s presence in every molecule of my being like this before. It’s like the second Vander enters my space I’m acutely aware of it. As if I’m uniquely attuned to his aura and can recognize it as soon as he’s near.
It’s disconcerting, putting me even more on edge. I’ve been a bit of a basket case since Friday night when Dee sent me into a complete tailspin.
“Mom.” West’s deep voice reminds me I need to get my shit together. “Vander’s here.”
Plastering a smile on my face, I lift my head and stare at my son’s best friend. It’s the first time we have seen one another in months, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to gasp when my eyes lock on his.
I didn’t think it was possible, but he’s even more magnetic. An invisible charge ignites the space between us, and I feel an almost insurmountable urge to run to him. Every part of me strains toward him, as if I’m being drawn by some magical force. It only adds to the confusion I feel.
Vander incites attention whenever he steps into a room. It’s not only because he’s utterly gorgeous—tall and broad with ripped abs and bulging biceps that can’t be ignored. The growing number of tattoos covering his skin showcases his artwork to perfection. I know, for a fact, he has designed and drawn every piece of ink that adorns his tempting body. His tight black shirt is rolled up to the elbows, displaying new ink on his lower arms, and I see more creeping up his neck from the collar of his shirt. He has his nose and eyebrow rings in today too, and his piercing green eyes are smoldering as he stares at me.
No, it’s more than how striking he is to look at. He has this way of carrying himself that commands attention, whether he wants it or not. He oozes masculinity in a way I’ve never noticed in any man before. He’s only eighteen, but he’s definitely not a kid. Vander has always seemed older, in looks and disposition. His dysfunctional upbringing has forced him to mature at a young age, and that’s one of the things that sets him apart from his peers.
“You feeling okay, Mom?” Stella asks, narrowing her eyes at me. “You’re acting weird.”
Heat creeps up my neck at my daughter’s words, confirming I’m being obvious in the extreme. “Apologies. I was daydreaming,” I lie, setting the mop against the wall and plastering another smile on my face. I walk toward Vander with a pounding heart. “It’s good to see you, Vander. We’ve missed you.”
“I have been busy,” he says, thrusting a bunch of roses at me. The deep, rich tone of his voice does strange twisty things to my insides, and it’s a struggle to remain composed. “Thanks for inviting me,” he adds, stabbing me with intense eyes that seem to see all the way through to my soul.
“You know you’re always welcome in our home.” I take the flowers, and a genuine smile materializes on my face. “Thank you. You know you don’t need to bring anything, but I appreciate it.” Especially when it’s been years since my husband has done anything as considerate.
In the aftermath of his affair, Curtis bent over backward to make things up to me. Showering me with affection and gifts, but it all felt fake and forced, and I couldn’t bring myself to appreciate it. By the time I had thawed, Curtis had reverted to form, and the affection and gifts were a thing of the past.
Vander always brings flowers or chocolates when he comes to Sunday dinner, and I know it’s because he’s grateful to be included and appreciative of a home-cooked meal. His sincerity is never in doubt. I don’t know where he collected his manners because it’s not like he’s had any role model to look up to. I think he is just inherently good.
“You’re such a suck-up.” West thumps Vander in the arm while grinning.
“You’re lucky you have a mom who cooks Sunday dinner. Maybe you should be more appreciative.” His eyes pin West in place, and the meaning is clear.
The smile slips off my son’s mouth. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” West turns to me with a somber expression. “You know I appreciate you, Mom, right? I couldn’t have asked for a better mother, and I love you. You’re the best.”
My heart swells at his heartfelt words. I stretch up and kiss his cheek. “I know, honey, and I love you too.” My boys are very affectionate with me, but West did go through a phase, from thirteen to sixteen, when it apparently wasn’t cool to hug your mom or tell her you loved her. He’s really grown up in recent months, and I think his girlfriend, Hazel, is a good influence on him too. I have noticed he is freer with the affection, and I love it. There is just something about the bond between mother and son that is vastly different from the bond I share with my daughter, but I cherish the relationship I have with Stella too.
Opening the overhead cupboard, I stretch up to grab my favorite glass vase when warmth hits me from behind.