Page 93 of One Big Little Secret

It’s probably not often grown men visit her place this late, especially with the boy around.

Knowing our past, barging in like I did was probably a dumb move, and she must regret it every second. But I’ll sort out whatever the hell this is later, when I’m not in their apartment.

The doorbell rings and Salem jumps like a startled cat.

“Stay there, guys. I’ll get the pizza.”

“I loooove pizza!” Arlo tells me, pumping his fist like he’s revealing some great secret. “It’s my favorite but Mommy doesn’t let us have it very often.”

I suspect he thinks this is a character flaw.

“Your mommy wants you to eat healthy so you can grow up to kick some butt. Just like your heroes,” Salem says, returning with two large boxes in her hands.

The little pizza shop up the street isn’t one of those fancy places with all locally sourced ingredients and more cheese than sauce. Really, it’s one step above pure take-out comfort trash, but when she lays the boxes down on the table and opens the lid and the warm, greasy scent curls out, I know he was right.

Tonight’s perfect for junk food.

There’s something comforting about the smell, and I close my eyes as I inhale.

To think, if I hadn’t answered her call, I’d be scrambling eggs and spinach with a steak on the side at home. My go-to after a long day when it’s reasonably healthy and it doesn’t take long to throw together.

“Wash your hands, Arlo,” Salem commands as he rushes toward her. “And make sure you use soap.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

She glances up with a tiny smile.

Shit, I could stare at that smile all day. I’m glad she’s getting over the storm rattling her.

Stop looking at her like that,a voice growls in the back of my mind.

“I’ll plate us up,” is all she says.

After we’re all washed up and ready—and she inspects Arlo’s hands to make sure he reallydiduse soap—she hands out plates with one big slice for each of us.

We devour the grub eagerly in companionable silence.

Fuck me, this pizza is good.

It’s just basic pepperoni, aside from my margherita pizza, but it’s the perfect warmth, grease, cheese, and spice we need on a shit night.

“I don’t care what anybody says. Best pizza in Kansas City,” Salem tells me with an amused glance at Arlo, who’s eating himself into a food coma. “I know a certain someone agrees.”

“Who?” Arlo asks, chewing obliviously.

“He’s not wrong. This is incredible.”

“I’ll let the owner know you think it’s good. Strong endorsement, coming from a Rory.”

“You know him?”

“His son lives in the building, just a few units down,” she says with a shrug. “He’s taken a liking to Arlo—or Arlo’s taken a liking to him. I don’t know how it happened, but they’re friends now. He always stops to talk when he sees us in the hall.”

I hate that I can see that. Arlo’s a good kid, now that I’ve gotten to know him better. With his mom handling him alone, it’s easy to appreciate how he’s turning out.

What’s harder is feeling jealousy flaring in my blood.

How old is this son, anyway?

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