Page 7 of Old Flame

My steps slowed as I approached the front porch of my mom’s house. The sun was going down, casting a shadow over it, and I’d not noticed the porch was occupied until I almost reached the steps. Salem Gray was sitting on the swing. The sight of her did shit to me that I wasn’t familiar with, and it only seemed to get worse every time I saw her.

I was nineteen, and she was fifteen years old. My mother had made that very fucking clear the night I met her. She followed me out to my truck and let me know that Salem was living with her due to an abusive situation at home. Salem was her most promising art student in all her twenty years of teaching. Mom had big plans for Salem. She’d said that Salem was broken, but she was going to help fix the girl and I was going to ignore the bashful smiles she flashed at me.

Well, Momma, it’s fucking hard to do. Your little brilliant artist is stunning, and I’m a man.

I preferred to only see Salem with Mom present. That way, Salem wouldn’t bat her long lashes and pull that plump bottom lip between her teeth as she flashed her cornflower-blue eyes at me. Yeah, that shit was on purpose. She knew she was a fuckingstunner, and it worked.

I would just nod, say hello, and keep walking. Not stop to encourage conversation.

The last time, she’d asked about the tattoo on my back that continued to cover my right arm. When I told her it was a phoenix rising from its ashes, she asked to see it. I pulled up my shirt and took out my right arm so she could see the full piece. She asked what the ashes represented, what I’d risen from, and I explained that it wasn’t me. It was my mom. Before I could lower my shirt back, her fingertips brushed over my skin, sending electric bolts right down to my fucking cock. I had told myself no more letting her get me alone.

She would turn sixteen in a month, and she’d mentioned needing someone to let her practice driving outside of driver’s ed at school. My mom could do that. She had done it with me. But when I told her exactly that, the crestfallen expression on her face was painful. My chest tightened uncomfortably, and I’d been real damn close to offering to help right that fucking minute.

She was dangerous.

Nod, say hello, then get the fuck inside.

When I stepped onto the porch, it only took one glance in her direction for my cock to twitch.

Jesus, Mom, could you not make her wear more clothing?

I realized it was September in Florida, which meant it was hot as fuck, but still. The shorts were tiny, and there was no bra under that crop top she was wearing. Her smile spread across her face, and those eyes of hers lit up, as if seeing me had made her fucking day.

Inside, Rome. Get the hell inside the house.

“Hey.” One word, but even her voice was sexy. It had a thick Southern drawl to it, which wasn’t common in this part of Florida.

I nodded my head once. “Hey,” I replied, then opened the screen door to get my ass away from her.

As I walked inside the door, the scent of home and Momma’s cooking met me. I relaxed some, but not entirely.

“Smells good!” I called out, making my way toward the kitchen.

I might have moved out, but I came for dinner at least four nights a week. I’d much rather have Momma’s cooking than pay for food that wasn’t nearly as good. Plus, I could check on her this way.

“Because it is!” she called back to me, and I grinned.

I had very few memories of my father living here with us. He’d not tried to have a relationship with me once he moved out to start his new family and I sure as fuck wasn’t going to search him out.

It was something I struggled with as a kid until, one day at a baseball game, another boy on my team was getting yelled at by his father for every mistake. The kid looked pale and beaten down. Meanwhile, my momma was in the stands, cheering for me so damn loudly that, at nine years old, I realized I didn’t need a dad. I had her, and she was better than a dad.

When I lost a game, we would go out to get ice cream. When my best friend moved away, she made brownies and popped a big bowl of popcorn for dinner. Then we stayed up late, watching movies.

There wasn’t a time in my life when I’d felt like she wasn’t there for me or that I was missing out by not having a father. I had my mom. The strongest person I knew.

Mom’s blonde hair, which she kept cut in a bob, was pulled back with a headband, and a pink-and-white checked apron covered her T-shirt and denim shorts as she worked at the stove. “Please Forgive Me” by Bryan Adams played on the Bluetooth speaker I’d bought her for Christmas last year, and she was singing along to it.

I squeezed her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. “Please tell me that is peach cobbler I smell.”

She tilted her head back to look up at me. “Yep, and I got ribs on the grill out back. Go check on them and take that sheet pan with you. They’re probably close to ready. Might need five more minutes or so. The corn on the cob can all come off now, so grab the tongs too.”

Damn, I was glad I had come home to eat tonight. She had gone all out.

“Did you know I was coming?” I asked, looking at the three plates on the table and the pitcher of her homemade lemonade.

“When do you ever tell me you’re coming?” she asked. “There is plenty though. I always make enough for you.”

Frowning, I looked from the table back to her. “You set the table for three.”

---