Page 89 of Rookie Recovery

Just, you know. More mom-ish.

“There you are!” Her mom-eyes narrowed as she took me in. Then they skated sideways, looking for Bowie, who’d turned back to the kitchen-linen-rescue service. She was not deterred. “You were right, Sausage! He is handsome.”

I blushed so hard I was surprised my hair didn’t catch fire from the steaming tips of my ears.

“He is, isn’t he?” Bowie spun to flash me that big, beautiful shit-eating grin. And I couldn’t even glare back! Because I was on camera! That cheeky little bastard—

“I’m right here,” I said, crossing my arms—and then quickly uncrossing them because shit had that put my tattoos on camera? “But are you hiding? From your own mum?”

I tilted my head and flashed him a smile. A big, friendly, challenging one.

Which prompted Bowie to walk around the island and smush himself to my side.

Fuckin’A.

He leaned his elbows on the counter. “Hey, Mum.”

“Oh, I like him,” Mrs. Bowman murmured. And I blushed all over again. The side of my body that was pressed against Bowie’s felt hot enough to melt my skin.

Bowie, naturally, turned and pinched my hip.

I squirmed sideways—then wrapped an arm around him to pull him closer. Pinning his pinch-hand against my hip bone and tucking him into my side. He melted into me. Soft and supple and pliant, like wax poured into a mold. Like we were made to fit together.

Mrs. Bowman grinned, a wide white smile that lit up her whole face—just like Bowie’s. My stomach flipped a somersault, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Well, you two have a romantic dinner to get to?”

“Oh, yes. Dinner.” I felt Bowie’s grin against my shoulder, didn’t dare to steal a glance. “Roast beef. Which I’m cooking. It will be so romantic.”

He straightened up, disentangling himself from me, and Mrs. Bowman sobered. “I’ll let you go then. Have fun.”

“Bye, Mum.”

“Bye, Mrs. Bowman. Maggie.” I waited for Bowie to end the call before I pounced. “Your mom knows about me?”

“Was I going to not tell her about my ridiculously hot, off-limits physiotherapist with magic hands?“ He shook his head, then circled back around the island to whatever task he’d left unfinished when the oven mitts had stolen his attention. “Honestly.”

“I have actually decided I don’t want to know anything more on the subject. Ever.” I pulled my leg off the chair to turn towards the TV, even though I had no idea what was going on in the game. “How long before dinner?”

“‘Bout an hour and a half. Do you talk to your mum often?”

I shrugged. “Sure. Couple of times a month, and I visit my parents every few months. We do not talk about my, um, love life.”

Not that she didn’t ask. Constantly.

“Because it’s nonexistent.” Bowie untied the apron from around his narrow waist. Where had he even gotten that ridiculous thing from? “What would there be to tell?”

“She’d like you,” I muttered as he shuffled out of the kitchen, Brady at his heels.

Bowie’s green eyes homed in on me, and I realized my mistake the moment before he spoke. “Would she? Why?”

Because he was adorable? Because who wouldn’t? Because for some reason, he was a guy I had gotten close to: invited into my house, shared meals with, come completely un-fucking-done for. In more ways than with my back against a tree. She’d like him because he was a guy I wanted to stick around.

“She’d like you because I like you,” I said, and his brows shot towards his hairline. Eyes went all wide and doe-y.

“You like me?”

I immediately regretted my moment of softness. “My mom would love that you cook for me. She’s convinced I live off frozen dinners.”

“Well, isn’t she right?” He grinned that cocky grin that really shouldn’t have made me so gooey inside. “Mums love me.”

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