Page 2 of Kiss Me Tonight

And all because I met an older man with a slick smile and a magic penis. Scratch that. There’d been nothing remotely magical about Rick’s dick. Just because he was packing below the belt didn’t mean he knew how to use it, but I’d been young and inexperienced and naïve enough to fall for false promises of love and happily-ever-afters.

Stop ruminating and count your lucky stars.

Idly plucking at the laces, knowing that Shawn’s waiting for me to get my shit together and answer, I count out three doses of luck:

I’m grateful for having a job that pays me to do what I love.

I’m grateful for divorcing Rick the Prick a year ago—finally.

I’m grateful to Mom, who ditched her knitting club tonight to watch Topher so I can socialize with people over the age of thirty.

Actually, the last one came from Topher himself, my fifteen-year-old-son, who shouldered on up to me, rapped his knuckles on my forehead, and confessed, “I think you need to adult, Ma. I love you, but maybe I could—I don’t know—play video games tonight without you hovering over my shoulder?”

I think I’m failing at this adulting thing.

The locals are keeping their distance, Shawn is eyeing me like he can’t trust me worth a damn, and at this point in the night, I’ve shared more intellectual conversation with my Guinness than with anyone in possession of a heartbeat.

“Couldn’t imagine staying away forever,” I lie to Shawn, hoping he won’t hear the tipsy tremor in my voice. I balance the tattered football on my bent knee, wishing the Golden Fleece rocked more than candlelight so that I might be able to make out my dad’s signature scrawled across the textured leather.I miss you, Dad. Miss his hearty laugh and the crazy knack he had for staring at a group of players and bringing out the best in every one of them. Holding this football, the same one he caught in the end zone back in 1982, when he played for the Pats, makes me feel a little less lonely.

When Shawn’s silence stretches on uncomfortably, I paste on a happy-go-lucky grin. “Oh, c’mon. I know you secretly missed me. No point in denying it.”

Shawn’s expression radiates all kinds ofin-your-dreamsvibes. “The last time you stepped foot in here, I served you your first legal drink.”

Wiggling my brows to tease him, I give my pint glass a little swirl. Tap it down on the bar in an informal toast. “If I remember correctly, it wasn’t the first drink you sent my way. How old was I the first time? Eighteen? Nineteen?”

Finally, the tightness around his eyes softens. Internally I rejoice when he lets out his familiar, raspy chuckle. “You ever tell that to your mom and I’ll be dead by morning.”

“If she has it her way, you’ll be dead no matter what.”

“Nah.” He cups the back of his neck with a weathered hand, then swipes the rag from his shoulder. “What? Gossip doesn’t reach as far as Pittsburgh?” With gusto, he wipes down the already polished mahogany bar. “Your mom and I have set aside our differences. I’m nearin’ seventy, Levi. You think I care about what happened fifty years ago?”

I blink. Stare down into my dark stout and wonder if I’m already drunk enough to be hearing things that can’t possibly be true. Then I blink again for good measure because the up and down motion of my head is not doing me any favors.

At thirty-seven, you’d think I’d be a pro at managing my liquor intake, but drinking has never really been my thing.

I press a stabilizing hand to the bar and pray for soberness. “You really want me to believe that Mom forgave you for dumping her at Homecoming?” Everyone knows the story here in London. And if youdon’tknow the story of how Shawn Jensen declared his love for someone otherthan my mother at 1971’s Homecoming—that “someone” being her ex-best friend—then you’re one lucky son of a gun. I’ve heard it retold so many times I can recite the night’s itinerary down to the second. Last I heard, Mom went so far as to ban Miranda Lee from joining her popular knitting club a few years back.Somegossip reaches Pittsburgh, it seems. “She hates you, Shawn.”

The muted light emphasizes the silver strands in Shawn’s surprisingly thick head of hair as he snags a cocktail glass from where it hangs upside down from a rack. “Hate’s a strong word.”

Is it?

I have a whole list of things that I hate. Pickles. The band Journey. Drivers who don’t know how to navigate a four-way intersection. Ex-husbands named Rick.

“Has she baked you her famous casserole pie yet?” I ask, swishing the beer in my glass before taking another heavy gulp. Mom is an absolute sweetheart, but apologies aren’t really her thing. She prefers to gloss overI’m sorrywith homemade casserole and a good amount of booze.

Shawn’s bushy brows knit together. “Casserole?”

“Yup.”

Hand-delivering a (store bought) casserole to my mom’s front door was the first order of business when I moved back a month ago. As expected, she’d laughed, ushered me inside, then promptly informed me that I had shit taste in men.

No surprise there.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news but . . . without the casserole”—I shrug, feeling only slightly evil about messing with Shawn—“you’re not in the clear yet.”

“What the hell do you mean, I’m not in the clear?”

“The casserole is the gateway to forgiveness.”

---