Lincoln strides into the living room at that moment, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel.
He makes eye contact with me from across the room. His dark, lingering stare makes my stomach do flips with the memory of what I did in his shower last night after he got me allkeyed up and left me all alone in his room. The memory is still too fresh.
“It’s getting late,” he jumps in, addressing his ex-wife.
Cynthia checks her watch with a hiked eyebrow. “It’s four-thirty.” She tilts her head to the side.
Lincoln huffs, glaring at her with an undeniable degree of familiarity. It tells the story of two people who have had countless arguments over the years, yet somehow still respect each other. “I think that might be too much for Jules. Plus, she’s trying to get some work done. And—”
“It’s not too much,” I butt in then, smiling at them both.
“Jules...” Lincoln grinds out, like he thinks he’s protecting me or something.
I don’t need his protection.
I protect myself. That’s how it’s always been.
I shake my head. “If I’m going to be Cameron’s stepmother, it would be in everyone’s interest for us women to get along, don’t you think?”
While Lincoln seems uncomfortable with the idea of the two of us spending time together, he can’t seem to find a good argument to keep us apart.
I turn to Cynthia, forcing my grin even wider. “I’m gonna take you up on your offer,” I tell her. “I’d love to have dinner together.”
I run upstairs, change into a knee-length blue dress with black nylons, and then the two of us climb into her rented car and head into town.
When I suggest breakfast for dinner, Cynthia is fully on-board. That’s how we end up at Eggs N Oats instead of The Whiskey Barrel or one of the local restaurants that tend to be busy around dinner time.
Clearly, Cynthia wants to talk, and yelling in the ear of my fake fiancé’s ex-wife all evening isn’t an appealing option. So, pancakes and scrambled eggs, it is.
“Lincoln’s a great cook, but I have to admit that this sounds way tastier than the broccoli casserole he’s preparing at home,” Cynthia says with a laugh as we walk through the front door.
“Everything on the menu here is great,” I tell her. “I think you’re going to love it.”
While the air around us is stilted and awkward, Cynthia and I are both painfully polite as we find a table and place our order.
“So you grew up here?” she asks as Tammy drops off our fruit smoothies at our table.
“Born and raised.” I take a sip from my straw and shiver at the cold.
“Is Fairy Bush a good place to raise kids?” she asks, a hint of worry in her voice. “Do you have a lot of family support?”
I chuckle. “To be honest, I thought it was incredibly boring here as a kid. But it’s small. Safe. Fun parks. Good teachers. When they’re not keeping you back for detention. And um, family? Yeah. Sort of. My mom’s great, and she already loves Cameron.”
A weight visibly rolls off Cynthia’s shoulders. “That actually makes me really happy to hear,” she says. “My parents aren’t exactly the doting grandparent-y type. I’m glad there will be others in Cameron’s life.”
It’s understandable that Cynthia wants to make sure Cameron is in good hands.
“He deserves so much love,” I say.
Cynthia continues to pepper me with questions about my life and my relationship with Lincoln, but she doesn’t cross any lines. She does it in a way that’s respectful. It helps that I’ve had a bunch of practice answering all these questions from our friends and family recently.
When our bacon and eggs arrive, we talk a lot about Cameron. “His favorite sandwich is almond butter and jelly.” She pauses. “Except you must still call it a PB&J. He won’t have it any other way.”
I laugh. “Noted.”
“And when he can’t sleep at night, you need to turn on his planetarium lamp and lay on the floor next to him and talk to him until he eventually falls asleep under the starry sky.”
I can’t help but smile. “That sounds dreamy.”
