We both chuckle, the twins still scrolling and making way too much commentary for my liking.
*****
I roll into Naples just before noon, and Florida does what Florida always does—hits me in the face with a wall of heat that feels like someone cranked the oven tobroiland forgot to turn it off.
The sun's so brutal it feels personal, like it has a vendetta against my skin. My shirt's glued to me, sweat dripping down my back before I even shut the engine off.
Don't even get me started on the drive. Four hours of traffic that crawled like molasses in January, and this is with me leaving Miami at eight in the damn morning. Every snowbirdand their grandma was on the highway today, and apparently half of Florida decided to ride the brake pedal for fun.
Still—worth it.
Because today I pulled up in my brand-new Defender Octa. Black, sleek, sexy as hell. Mom surprised me with it when I turned twenty-one back in December, said it was time for me to stop 'driving that death trap' and get something that wouldn't collapse if I sneezed on it too hard.
Now, I'm not the kind of guy who drools over cars. I don't memorize engine stats or follow luxury car accounts like it's porn.
But the second Land Rover dropped the Octa last year? Man, I was hooked. Those sharp lines. The growl of the engine. The way it looks like it's ready to run someone off the road and then take you to a five-star dinner after.
And since my old rusty beater decided to officially die on me right around the same time? I took it as a sign from the hockey gods.
Like,bro, you're an adult now. Upgrade already.
So yeah, I did.
The second I kill the engine and step out, Naples heat sucker-punches me again. I practically jog inside, and the moment I push through the door, it's heaven. The AC's blasting, cool air wrapping around me like a hug, chasing away every bead of sweat.
And then—bam. The smell hits me. Freshly baked ziti. Cheese, sauce, pasta—all of it coming together like the universe finally decided to cut me a break. My stomach growls loud enough I swear it echoes.
There's the sound of clinking in the kitchen, pots shifting. Figures. "Mom?" I call, voice carrying down the hall.
"In here, honey!"
I head straight in and yeah, there she is. Mom's pulling a pan of baked ziti from the oven, wearing those ridiculous pink floral mitts and the faded apron we bought her seven years ago that saysWorld's Okayest Chef.(Sam's idea of humor, not mine.)
She turns, and her smile is brighter than the damn Florida sun. "There's my boy."
"Hey, Ma." I cross over, folding my henley sleeves up my forearms before leaning down to kiss her cheek. She smells like tomatoes and basil, and home. Always home.
"How was the drive?" she asks, setting the pan on the stove.
I drop onto one of the stools at the island, stretching out my legs. "Long. Hot. Traffic sucked. I swear Miami drivers forget how to use a gas pedal."
She chuckles, shaking her head. "And here you are, alive and in one piece. I'd call that a success."
"Barely. The only thing keeping me sane was knowing I'd walk in here to AC and your delicious dish."
Her grin widens as she starts fussing with plates. "Well, lucky for you, I made plenty."
I lean my elbows on the counter, watching her do her little kitchen ritual—checking the sauce, wiping down the counter even though it's already spotless, humming something faint under her breath.
Mom's only in her early forties, sandy blonde hair pulled back in that low twist she always wears. A couple strands of gray peek through, but honestly? She wears them better than most people wear highlights.
She's still young. Still beautiful.
She could be out on some beach date, or sipping wine with some guy who actually deserves her. God knows I've tried nudging her toward it—"try a date," "sign up for one of those apps,"even threatened to make her a profile myself once. She just shot me that look and said no.
Always no.
It's been five years since Dad passed, and she hasn't so much as thought about moving on. Says she's keeping her vows—that you only love one man, marry one man, and that's it. That just because Dad's gone, doesn't mean the vows don't still count.
