I sat for a few more minutes, staring out the café window at the quiet streets of Elmwood, at the locals wandering past with ice cream cones and shopping bags. A couple sat on a bench, their dog panting in the August heat. Everything looked so picture-perfect, small-town America, but I’d learned a long time ago that surface didn’t mean shit.
Take my mom. At first glance, no one would ever suspect this sexy woman to be able to kill in cold blood. And as I drained the last of my matcha, the aftertaste coating my tongue, I had the unsettling thought that maybe the danger Paisley should be worried about wasn’t Maddox.
I was halfwayup the driveway, tote bag slung over my shoulder and the smile still on my lips since Paisley asked to hang out, when a familiar engine rumbled behind me.
The Impala.
I turned as it rolled over the curb and up the driveway. My mom killed the engine and hopped out in one fluid motion. I stood off to the side, wondering how this stunning woman was my mother. Who went to the grocery store in four-inch black heels, white cotton shorts accenting her defined tan legs, and a black strapless top? She had an energetic bounce, suggesting something had happened while she’d been navigating grocery store aisles. God only knew what.
Her sunglasses were perched on top of her head, pushing dark strands of hair back from her face. A too-bright smile curved her lips, and my stomach clenched with preemptive dread. She walked like she was floating an inch off the ground.
“Why do you look like that?” I asked, gazing sideways at her.
“Like what?” She popped the trunk with a cheerful little beep, reaching for the grocery bags.
I squinted at her. “Like you’re about to tell me something I’m not going to like.”
An airy, almost girlish laugh bubbled out of her as she balanced two brown bags in her hands. “Here.” She passed off the bags to me.
I took them automatically, but my attention wasn’t on groceries. It was on the way she was practically vibrating with excitement energy, sending warning bells off in my head. “You’re being weird,” I said, adjusting my grip on the bags. “Tell me what’s going on.”
She pulled out two more bags, securing them in her hold before shutting the trunk. “I met someone.”
I froze halfway up the porch steps. “What do you mean you met someone? Like a neighbor? A friend? Someone at the farmer’s market who gave you a recipe for zucchini bread?”
She snorted. “You know I don’t bake.” She gave a half shrug as she moved to the front door. “I met a guy.” For anyone other than my mom, it might not have been a big deal, butmy mom…she didn’t date. Not unless the guy was a target and she planned to slice his throat.
My groan ripped straight out of my chest. “Mom. No. You promised.”
She wrinkled her nose, wiggling the key into the door. “This is different. He’s not on my list.”
“Okay,” I drew out, unconvinced. “Since when do you date?”
“I told you I was serious about starting over.” She bumped the door open with her hip, stepping into the cottage. “It’s about time for me to start living my life again. Besides, this is just a test run, feeling out the waters. No need to freak out just yet.”
I followed her inside, kicking the door shut behind me. “You want to date? Like, for real?”
“That’s what I said,” she retorted, setting her bags on the kitchen counter. “When he asked me to dinner, I thought, why the hell not, and before I overthought it, I said yes.”
“When?” I asked, dropping my grocery bags onto the counter.
“Tomorrow. It’s one date, Malibu. It’s not the end of the world.”
I wanted my mom to be happy, especially now that she didn’t have a list of names to cross off, but the idea of her with a guy after what she’d been through…it scared me on so many levels. I wondered if she was just as scared. “Why do I have a bad feeling about this?” I muttered, staring at the bags like they might contain answers instead of produce and carbs.
“Do you want to come with me?” She started unpacking, pulling out vegetables and setting them in the ceramic bowl we’d bought at an estate sale last week.
I gave her a drool look. “Not funny. And gross. The last thing I want to do is chaperone your date. Shouldn’t you be the one chaperoning my dates? Not that I would let you.”
A twinkle of wickedness gleamed in her eyes. “You have a date?”
“What? No.”
“But you do want to date. Have you met someone?”
I didn’t like the glint in her eyes. She saw too much, especially when it came to me. “Where and how would I meet someone?” I grumbled.
Grinning, she took her sunglasses off her head. “Try the farmer’s market.”
