Skipping the beard trimming he desperately needed, Denver dressed and headed downstairs.
“Hey, Mom.”
Mom was on the floor in his office, rubbing Sherlock’s belly.Sure, he gets off the couch for her.The lug was on his back, furry legs raised in the air. He gave Denver a look that said,What? I like belly rubs. “I came to check on you,” she said. “Haven’t heard from you much this week.”
Had he called her since they unloaded an excess of lumber in her garage? He struggled to remember what day that was. Monday? Maybe he’d been so distracted he forgot to check in. “Sorry, I have a book deadline.”
Mom gave Sherlock one last solid belly rub then got to her feet. Denver resisted the urge to give her a hand, hating that her age was starting to show. But the last time he offered to help her up, she swatted his hand and gave him a lecture about being completely capable. Tillie Grant was not a woman who relied on anyone—except her sons to eat the excess food she prepared.
“I brought you a casserole,” she said, dusting off her jeans with her hands. “Just cook it for an hour at three-fifty.”
“Thanks, Mom. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Of course I did. I’m your mother.”
He walked toward her and wrapped her in a quick hug. “Thank you.”
“How long will you be working on this book today?”
Denver hesitated to answer, assuming that the minute he was free she’d want him to help on the parade float. In all the years growing up that he and Ryder had begged for their family to build a float of their own, how had this been the one year his mom decided to do it? “Couple hours yet. Maybe a little longer.”
“Think you can come by for dinner?”
He shouldn’t. In reality, he should chain himself to his office chair until he wrote chapter twenty-two in its entirety. Maybe even chapter twenty-three. Two hours would be enoughifMalcom cooperated. But today, the detective felt like doing his own thing. “How about after dinner?”
“I’m grilling salmon.”
Only a fool turned down Tillie Grant’s grilled salmon.Well played, Mom.
“What time?” he asked.
The already long weekend was about to get longer. He’d promised Sophie to join her on half of her eight-mile run tomorrow. Though Denver wanted to see her, he cared how she was progressing with her training now that the race was only a week away. He could sleep at the end of next week, after his editor had the manuscript in hand.
“Six-thirty.”
She headed to the front door, never one to stay long. Mom had always been a social butterfly, on the run to the next task, but Denver swore she only got busier after retirement. “Invite Sophie and Caroline for me, will you?”
At the mere mention of her name, Denver’s pulse doubled. “Sure.”
“You might think about trimming that beard. Just because you deliver firewood, that doesn’t make you a lumberjack,” she teased.
“I’m on it.”
She paused at the front door, turning. “You’re going to be at book club on Monday night?”
“Yes, Mom.” Just another obligation he should’ve turned down. Or better yet, he should’ve written his current book sooner. Fewer side projects, less internet browsing, and more focused writing time. Maybe then, he’d stop racing against these crazy deadlines.
“Good, good. Might think about bringing extra books. I know Geraldine Franks wants to buy a few.”
Hand on the door, ready to close it behind his mom, Denver nodded. “Already planning on bringing extras. No, you don’t need to bring anything. Sophie has all the refreshments covered.”
“That’s good. Really good.”
Denver studied his mom closer, noticing a bouncing gleam in her eyes and incessant fiddling with her necklace pendant. He could let her work up to saying whatever it was on her own, but he didn’t have that kind of time. “Mom, just spit it out.”
“You really should think about asking Sophie to the Moose Days Festival.”
“We’re already going together. Asfriends.” Denver made certain to establish that weeks ago, before his plan to confess his feelings came about. The last thing he wanted was someone else sweeping Sophie off her feet before he had the chance.
