Page 37 of Forget Me Knot

He releases a deep sigh. “It’s my mom.”

And just when I swore the man could not get any more attractive in my eyes, he lets his forehead rest on the back of my head, picks up the phone and greets his mama like she’s the sun on a cloudy day.

“Hey, Mama,” he says so sweetly, my cheeks hurt from grinning. His floured hand finds my waist, locking me in place.Like I was goin’ anywhere, buddy.“I know it’s Monday. I know… I know.”

He doesn’t seem to get a word in edgewise but also doesn’t seem hard pressed to add to the conversation.

“I already have plans. I’m sorry.” I flick my eyes up to him and find that from this angle, we are so very,veryclose. I cansmell the cinnamon I added to his coffee on his breath and lightly fantasize about tasting it on his lips. “Maybe next time.”

Maybe next time, indeed.

My eyebrows jump. I’m sure I look like a cartoon. “Don’t cancel for me,”I mouth.

“She wants me to go to lunch with everyone.” He clearly doesn’t think about the repercussions of speaking at a normal pitch and realizes his mistake when his mama’s voice levels up an octave.

“Who’re you talkin’ to, baby?”

He closes his eyes like he’s praying. “Dinah Knot, the pretzel—”

“You’re with Dinah? Gary, he’s with Dinah!” I cover my mouth to hide the giggles, and Jack’s lip tips up into the most delicious smirk. He almost looks embarrassed. I push my index finger into the tiny dimple it produces in his right cheek, because apparently I have no self-control, and once the touch barrier is broken, I have zero inhibitions. “I asked him to lunch already, but it’sJaaaack, Gary.” She draws out Jack’s name as if his dad couldn’t possibly know who she’s talking about. “Jackis with Dinah!”

She’s shouting now, and something in Jack’s countenance slips, replaced with the somber mask I’ve seen him wear before.

“Tell her you’ll go,” I whisper but make sure to keep my voice down. I already semi-forced him into pet ownership this week, so forcing Jack to join a family lunch is really not my business. But it feels like maybe he needs the encouragement. Maybe he needs support from someone not in his family telling him it’s okay to let himself be included. To be wanted.

“We’ll be there,” he says, and I just know my eyes are saucer-wide.

“We?” I whisper-yell. Do I want to go to a family lunch with Jack? Yes. Kind of. From what I’ve seen of his family, they’rewonderful and welcoming. Something I’ve missed for a long time. Will that lead to much more confusion in the J. Jones—and the entire Jones family—dynamic? Most assuredly.

“Okay. See you soon,” he says to Shelly, who’s returned to appropriate phone dynamics. “Love you, too.”

When he hangs up, he takes a deep breath but doesn’t relinquish his grip on my waist. “I’m sorry. I just…” He closes his eyes, his fingers tightening for a moment, and I turn myself in his arms, letting my hand rest on his chest and,Hello there, pectorals. Aren’t you nicely defined.

“It’s okay. I don’t have to go to lunch, Jack. We can reschedule. Truly, I—”

His eyes burst open and bare down on mine. “No. I… I haven’t been to lunch in a really long time, but I…” He has that same tired look I remember seeing on his face as he lay helpless on his couch a couple weeks ago.

But Jackson said he was on his way to lunch with his mom when I saw him the other day. So that must mean it’s just Jack who hasn’t been to lunch.Just Jack.

He closes his eyes again, like maybe he’s afraid of my possible rejection. “I don’t want to go without you. Will you come? Please.”

“I swear, Dinah, he wore those cowboy boots and nothin’ else for an entire year of his life.” Gram wipes another tear from her eye and swats at Shelly again. “Do you remember—”

In unison they chime, “Baby Bowen.”

“Please stop,” Jack begs under his breath, not for the first time this afternoon. But the women in his life seem to find slowly roasting this man over a fire of childhood embarrassment tobe the highlight of their luncheon. Even Winnie and Brooke, a friend of Owen’s, join in on the action.

Jumping between memories of Jack’s gangly teen years to charming his highschool teachers into better grades, his love of picking wildflowers in the outfield, his jaunt with college baseball, and the horror of his first kiss with Becky Sampson in the flower shop closet—unbeknownst to him—witnessed by his entire family.

I have thoroughly enjoyed every minute.

The Jones family’s welcome has been so warm. They seem to really want to get to know me, and I realize, sitting between Jack on one side and Gram on the other, that this is the first time I’ve really met a man’s family. A man I’m interested in.

And I’m struck by an overwhelming and surprising sense of sadness when I realize I won’t ever be able to introduce Jack to my parents. Dad won’t feed him pretzels and talk his ear off about sports, and my mom won’t share my embarrassing baby photos and stories of my awkward teen years.

“Who was baby Bowen?” I ask, not missing the way Jack sinks deeper into the couch beside me. For such a big man, he’s miraculously able to make himself so much smaller. It’s adorable.

His mama’s eyes light with excitement. “After Owen was born, Jackson all out refused to come to the hospital to meet him. Tantrums and cryin’. The whole bit.”

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