“And he let me help him,” Tommy adds, a hint of pride breaking through his usual serious demeanor. “With a real wrench.”
I lift my eyes to the heavens, a smile tugging at my lips. Lord, give me strength.
Looking back at my boys, I try to maintain my stern mom face because, seriously, stranger danger and alla’ that. “That doesn’t mean you can disappear without telling me where you’re going. I was worried sick.”
Tommy scuffs his sneaker against the worn floorboards. “Sorry, Mom.”
“Yeah, sorry, Mommy,” Jackson echoes, though I see right through him. He’s not sorry in the slightest. He’s probably thinking about the neighbor and how cool his motorcycle is.
I sigh. Being a boy mom is a tough job. Being a woman who hasn’t been with a man in over six years is even harder.
My mind does its own wandering back to the hottie next door. Those green eyes, the tattoos covering his muscular arms, the way his t-shirt stretched across his broad chest...
Stop it, Honey.
The last thing I need to do is start fantasizing about a biker who probably has women lining up around the block.
“I’ve got half the boxes inside, but the rest will have to wait until tomorrow.” I run a hand through my hair, exhaustion settling deep in my bones. “Tommy, head to the shower. There’s a towel in there for you already.”
Tommy nods and shuffles off toward the bathroom.
“Come on, Jackson. Let’s get your bed ready.” I take my youngest’s hand and lead him to what will be the boys’ bedroom.
It’s a small space with the same beige walls as the rest of the house, but at least it has a window with a view of the backyard. A few boxes labeled BOYS’ ROOM are stacked in the corner.
I pull the air mattress from one of the boxes and start unfolding it in the middle of the floor. “We’ll get real beds soon, I promise.”
“I don’t mind,” Jackson says, watching as I plug in the electric pump. “It’s like camping!”
His ability to find joy in even the most difficult situations never fails to warm my heart. “You’re right. It is like camping.”
The pump whirs to life, slowly inflating the mattress. Jackson bounces on his toes beside me, still buzzing with excitement from meeting our neighbor.
“Is Dread a real name?” he asks, his head tilted curiously.
“I don’t think so, sweetie. It’s probably a nickname.”
“Why would someone want to be called Dread? Isn’t dread bad?”
I chuckle. “I think it’s supposed to sound tough.”
“He looked tough,” Jackson agrees, his eyes big. “But he was nice.”
My phone rings in my pocket, cutting off Jackson’s chatter. I pull it out and feel my stomach drop when I see the name on the caller ID.
Erik.
Just great.
Taking a deep breath, I answer. “Hello?”
“Hey, babe.” I grit my teeth, an immediate wave of irritation rushing through me.
God! I freaking hate when he calls me that.
“What do you want, Erik?” I keep my voice even, fully aware that Jackson is watching me.
“Just checking in to make sure we’re still on for tomorrow. I’m picking up my boys at ten.”
