Chapter thirteen
Roe Monroe
The Bench Social Media Group
Marge Calloway: 10:42 p.m. Monroe has been at Thatcher’s since 8:00 p.m.
Didn’t knock. Just went around back.
Just saying.
Riley: Did he have an overnight bag?
Marge: No bag. Just confidence. And sinfully tight joggers.
Alex: He’s not there for coffee.
Stan: Let the man live. He’s probably checking on Jamie.
Marge: Stan. Please.
I glance up and catch Thatcher’s eyes as he reads the gossip site over my shoulder. He’s smirking like someone who knows the punchline to a joke and is deciding whether to say it out loud.
“You ready?” he asks, voice low as his bare foot—why is that so hot—pushes off the deck, causing the porch swing where we landed last night and again this afternoon, to move in a soothing rhythm.
“You mean for telling him?”
He nods toward the phone. “Kind of feels like we missed the window for subtle.”
“Yeah.” I exhale. “Still. Better he hears it from us than Riley’s running commentary.” Or from kids at practice or school, which has been Thatcher’s worry.
We didn’t wait long. Last night we agreed . . . after school today.
I want to take Thatcher out for dinner, or grab coffee, or a million things the town might find suitable for gossip, so the sooner the one person who has reason to know is actually in the know, the better.
Jamie’s out in the yard, making a show of kicking a soccer ball around to cross-train some footwork, but it’s mostly just pacing with extra steps. His foot’s doing that twitchy thing again, like he’s trying to decide whether to bolt or sulk.
Thatcher and I are on the back deck, sitting under a quilt that probably screams “domestic bliss” more than we intended. Jamie’s been glancing over like he knows something’s up but hasn’t decided if he wants to be involved.
Meanwhile, Thatcher’s thigh is pressed against mine and I’m trying very hard not to be distracted by it.
Spoiler: failing. In my defense, it’s a damn sexy thigh.
“You sure about this?” I murmur.
He doesn’t look over, just keeps watching Jamie pretending to work on step-overs. “I’m sure.”
Jamie finally wanders over at a beckoning by Thatcher, hands jammed in the front pocket of his hoodie. He flops onto the top step and gives us a look like he’s bracing for bad news.
“Okay,” he says. “This has big ‘family meeting’ energy, and I don’t love that. I know I screwed up at the game, but practice has been so much better—“
Thatcher stops him, as a ripple of sheer horror crosses his face when he realizes where Jamie’s mind has gone. “This isn’t about that, Jamie. You’re playing great, and even if you weren’t, this isn’t a hockey intervention.”
Thatcher looks to me and gives me a barely perceptible nod like I’m the one going first. Of course.
“You’ve probably noticed that your dad and I have been . . . around each other more.”
Jamie raises an eyebrow. “You mean like how he turns into a human lamppost every time you’re nearby?”
