That’s because no one wants you, boy.
It turns out my father was wrong. The old bastard must be rolling in his grave while I held the woman of my dreams in my arms.
Chapter seven
Elaine
When Wingman showed up for dinner the following evening, I was sick to my stomach with nerves. For the first time in years, I unearthed my little black dress from the back of my closet and curled my hair, with a touch of lipstick and blush. Examining my reflection in the mirror, I felt…pretty.I hadn’t felt that since before my pregnancy.
And tonight, I was having dinner with a man I was attracted to. A man who loved me.
A man who wanted to stay.
This aspect of my life—romance, desire, intimacy—had been buried as a single mom. I simply didn’t have the time or energy for it. Now that I had a chance to experience it again, I found myself desperately hoping that it didn’t slip through my fingers.
“Hey, I brought—whoa,” Wingman said when I answered the door. “Wow.”
Warmth flooded my cheeks and my lower belly clenched at the rasp in his voice. His gaze slowly panned over me from head to toe. I didn’t miss the darkening of his pupils or the way his eyes snagged on my V-neckline. I wasn’t showing a scandalous amount of cleavage, but the suggestion was clearly enough to get Wingman’s imagination revved up.
“You are gorgeous,” he said, stepping closer to curve his palm around my hip.
My nerves eased slightly at his compliment. As much as I longed to kiss him, to slip my hands under his shirt, mapping warm skin and tattoos, I knew Mikey was in the living room. Only a few steps away. He could interrupt us at any moment and I didn’t want him seeing that. Not yet. We had to talk first.
Instead, I took Wingman’s hand, interlacing our fingers together. He looked sinfully good in a snug blue henley and a new pair of jeans that molded to his muscular thighs. Tucked in the crook of his other arm was a bulging brown bag from the Old Spruce Pub. It smelled delicious.
“You better hurry up and get in here,” I said. “Mikey is about to start a one-man revolt if he doesn’t get something to eat soon. If you thought he was scary before, you don’t want to see him when he’s hangry.”
“Then I’m glad I ordered double portions for the little mobster,” Wingman replied.
We spent fifteen minutes on the phone together, going over the pub’s menu. At first, he wanted to surprise us. But when I pointed out that Mikey tended to be a picky eater, Wingman seamlessly switched gears and altered his plan, making sure he got exactly what Mikey liked.
Together, we unloaded the takeout containers on the kitchen table and deposited portions onto our plates.
“Mikey, dinner time!” I called. “Wingman brought you macaroni and cheese with chicken nuggets. Your favorite.”
A clatter of toy cars emanated from the living room, followed by the rhythm of small feet on the hardwood floor. Mikey entered the kitchen, surveying his plate and the layout of food on the table—steak, roasted vegetables, and yeasty golden brown bread rolls. Mikey’s plate had creamy mac and cheese, with crispy chicken nuggets.
He peered up at Wingman with a suspicious squint.
“Do you like my mom?”
“Yes, sir,” Wingman replied. “And I think you’re a pretty cool kid, too.”
Mikey weighed that revelation for a moment before he finally nodded and climbed into his chair. I gripped Wingman’s arm and gave it a squeeze
This was the moment of truth. It was time for that talk.
The three of us settled around our little kitchen table, slightly cramped, but still cozy, with the glow of Christmas lights radiating from the living room. For Mikey’s entire life, it had been just the two of us at this table.
But now, Wingman’s leg bumped against mine. And Mikey’s elbow kept knocking into me when he dug into his mac and cheese or stabbed at his chicken nuggets.
If we were going to do this—if our duo was going to become a trio in the future—we would need to expand and spread out. We would need more space.
“Mikey,” I ventured at last, gripping my fork like my life depended on it. “Wingman and I would like to tell you something.”
Mikey’s gaze shifted back and forth between us. Wingman reached under the table and took my hand for support.
“How would you feel if I started spending more time with you and your mom?” Wingman asked.
