Page 88 of Rookie Recovery

I’m at Jamie’s.

Which meant—

He’d told his mom about me. Before now.

“You’re on speaker,” said Bowie, plowing on ahead like my brain wasn’t trying to rewire itself to continue functioning with this new information.

He’d told his mom about me. “Say hi to Jamie, Mum!”

“Hi, Jamie!” Mum called through the phone, and my dumb mouth flapped open before my dumb brain remembered how to tell it what to say.

“Um, hi. Mrs. Bowman.”

His parents were married, right? He’d mentioned them, and all his brothers. Still, I should’ve gone with Ms. Or what if she didn’t have the same last name?

“Oh, he’s so American!” She chuckled, then raised her voice to address us both. “Please, call me Maggie. What are you two doing today?

“We’re watching football,” said Bowie as he chopped carrots, then dumped them into a roasting pan. “American football. That’s what proper Americans do on Sunday. Brady’s helping me cook.”

Is that what we were doing? I couldn’t remember. My brain had written out everything else going on except that we were talking to his mom, who knew about me. And my dog, evidently; she didn’t ask for clarification.

“Oh, that sounds lovely. What kind of roast are you making?”

“Beef,” Bowie murmured because I had forgotten the basic mechanics of verbal speech. “With Yorkshires and horseradish sauce. Jamie’s never had a roast.”

“Poor fella.”

“Um.” Did I squeak? “According to Bowie, I haven’t had a proper one. So, I guess not? What, um—are you up to today?”

I was such a fucking idiot. It was night there, wasn’t it?

“Oh, just catching up on rugby with the boys,” she said, which piqued my sports-loving interest—until she turned the conversation back around on me. “So, you’re a physiotherapist?”

“Yep. Yes. Ma’am.” I swallowed. Why was Bowie side-eyeing me? Why did my tongue feel fat? “Yes, ma’am.”

Why did I get the distinct impression she was on the verge of launching into a series of questions designed to determine if I was worthy of her son?

“Oh, how long have you been doing that?”

And suddenly, I really wanted to be. Worthy of the son—who’d conveniently recused himself from the conversation by being exceedingly busy picking an old burn off an oven mitt.

“Six years, ma’am.” I couldn’t pass my fucking business exams, but goddamn I wanted to pass the mom test. “Since I graduated.”

“Mm.” She was definitely weighing my answers on her approval scale—was I flunking yet? “And you live in Bringham?”

“Yes, ma’am. I own a condo near Downtown. A little south of it—walking distance.” Shit, I was babbling. Chill the fuck out, Sullivan. Did Bowie giggle? Coward was still Very Busy with the oven mitt. Or was it a towel now?

“Condo? Is that American for a fancy flat? It sounds lovely,” Mrs. Bowman continued. “Easy access to bars?”

“Oh. I don’t drink.” I winced.

Was that the correct answer? Or was she a fun mom who expected Bowie to be surrounded by fun young friends—shit I was failing, wasn’t I? Why was I failing so badly? “Much. Don’t drink much. I mean, I can be fun—”

“You’re intimidating the poor bloke, Mum.” Bowie tossed me a wink over his shoulder, and for some reason, that calmed the storm of butterflies in anxious flight inside my gut.

Until he leaned over the counter, tapped on the screen of his phone—and switched it to video.

Suddenly, I was staring at a pair of big, familiar green eyes in a not-quite-familiar face beneath a wash of strawberry blonde curls. She was Bowie.

---