At Whit's End (Wells Ranch, #4)(25)
I’ve been on a few dates over the years, but even the men who insisted they weren’t afraid of being with a single mom left the moment things got the slightest bit difficult. They’d get upset when I canceled a dinner date because Jonas was sick, or refuse to understand why I couldn’t swing a weekend getaway while still breastfeeding. I largely gave up on dating, letting Alex scratch that particular itch that only a real-life man could fix.
Yet I can’t stop staring. Wondering. Hoping.
I smooth down my shirt. Take a deep breath. Fix my hair. And try to catch my reflection in the kitchen window to check my makeup.
“Breathe, Whit,” I mutter to myself before spinning around to see Colt carefully examining the trinkets I have displayed in the living room.
It’s only a small fraction of the enamel pin collection I’ve carefully curated since I was a teenager. Most are safely tucked away in my bedroom. I prefer to keep my house much the same as my outward appearance—free of anything people might judge me about.
“Those are, uh, mostly thrifted,” I say when I see Colt eyeing up my pin collection, illogically overwhelmed with the desire for him to know that we share a secondhand shopping hobby. “They’re all from different punk bands I like.”
“Punk bands?” With a fleeting periphery glance, he takes in my appearance. “Actually, yeah, that tracks.”
“What does that mean?” I look down at my clothes, half-expecting to see a Bikini Kill T-shirt and torn skinny jeans. In fact, I’m a little disappointed in my lack of punk-ness, with my running shorts and a plain white tank top.
“Your black front door singes my knuckles every time I come here, you look like you could kill me with a single glance, and I can picture you with pink hair.”
“I’ve thought about adding some color”—I toy with the ends of my hair, twirling it around my fingers—“but my job won’t allow it.”
“Too bad. It would be hot.”
The speed at which my mind jumps to ways I can get around the corporate policy should be a workplace violation all on its own. But also, how would anyone know if I only dye the tips and keep my hair pulled back for all virtual meetings?
He bends down slightly to get a better look at the enamel pins I have neatly arranged—which I admit isn’t very punk rock of me—on an old denim vest draped across the television stand.
“This isn’t my taste in music, but I gotta admit this is a cool collection.”
“Thank you.” My voice is barely more than a whisper, watching him move on to the small assortment of reading-related pins.
“?‘Caution…Wet While Reading’? What does— Oh. Oh.” Warmth blooms in my face at the same time his cheeks pick up a pink hue. Between shaky fingers, Colt pinches the pin Blair gave me for Christmas, fumbling it for a second when our eyes meet. “I think we know who corrupted Jonas.”
“Stop before you start sounding too much like my dad.” I reach for the lavender-colored enamel pin, fighting the sizzle under my skin when our hands meet in the middle. The pizza cannot get here fast enough. Something needs to sop up the wine sloshing in my stomach. “As soon as Jonas started learning to read, I relegated the naughtier ones to my bedroom. Should probably move this one.”
“The naughtier books or pins?” He chuckles.
“Even if he knew what was in those books, he would never read by choice.”
At that moment, Jonas appears at the top of the stairs. His hair, sopping wet from the shower, drips water onto the shoulders of his neon green T-shirt as he hops down the stairs with more energy after a full afternoon of fishing than I think I’ve ever had. His butt hits the railing, sliding the last few feet, and he mouths the word oops when he catches me watching. Once he’s confirmed the pizza isn’t yet here, he grabs Colt and insists they play video games.
And I really don’t know how to feel about Colt bonding with my son, cracking through Jonas’s hard exterior with relative ease. But I know he looks damn good doing it.
Or maybe it’s the wine.
Fuck it. I may as well finish my glass.
“Pizza’s here,” Jonas announces at the sound of a car door slamming outside.
“Can you grab the door? I gotta run up to my room for my wallet.”
This town’s only pizza place might be the last restaurant on Earth to not rely on an app for ordering and payment. To be fair, the owners are a couple in their seventies, so I don’t think they even have their own cell phones.
I start toward the stairs, taking two at a time. Naturally, there’s a sock in the hallway—when isn’t there? Without stopping, I scoop it up and carry it to my bedroom, where it lands with a swish in the laundry basket.
I can’t help but take a quick glance in the mirror. There’s mascara smudged under my left eye, and a small wine stain on the front of my shirt. But the biggest thing I see in the mirror is the face of an idiot. Colt wasn’t checking me out earlier. He was scrutinizing the hot mess single mom in front of him, and I was too caught up in the way I was checking him out to realize my mistake.
Shaking my head at my own reflection, I watch a defeated sigh deflate my chest like a punctured balloon and pick up the wallet sitting on my dresser. There’s no time to fix my appearance, nor does it matter anymore.
On the disheartened walk back to the main living space, I silently tell myself it’s not even an issue because, actually, I don’t think he’s that cute. It’s good he wasn’t checking me out. That would only make things awkward.