Page 78 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

"No, we should go," Saylor says. Her hand finds mine, squeezing gently. "It's important. Family is important. Your brother is with Hannah, and you don't seem so mad about it anymore. I kind of want to show you off. Show Sanderson that you've matured."

I give her a small smile because she's right.

The simple acceptance, the willingness to face potential discomfort for my sake, tightens something in my chest. I tug her closer, until she's settled against me, her head on my shoulder.

"When did you get so funny?" I murmur against her hair.

She laughs, the sound vibrating through my chest. "I've always been funny. You were just too busy hating your brother to notice."

I can't argue with that assessment, so I kiss her instead, gratitude and affection and desire all mingled together in the press of my lips against hers.

My mom's new house sits on a quiet street of similar homes, all meticulous lawns and good landscaping. It's smaller than the house I grew up in — the one my father kept in the divorce, along with most of their shared assets — but far more inviting. Bright flowers line the front walk, and the door is painted blue that would have been too whimsical for my father's taste.

After years in a series of rentals, this place represents a fresh start for her. A life defined by her own choices rather than her ex-husband's preferences. I understand the significance in a way I couldn't have before.

"Your mom has great taste," Saylor says as we approach the front door, her hand warm in mine. She's dressed simply but elegantly in a sundress that makes her eyes look bright and her hair falls loose around her shoulders. The cut on her lip has healed completely, no visible trace remaining of that chaotic night at Byron's.

"She does now," I agree, remembering the ornate, uncomfortable furniture my father insisted on in our childhood home. "You'll like her. She's nothing like me."

Saylor laughs. "So, she's not stubborn, competitive, or unnecessarily complicated?"

"Exactly. Complete opposite."

The door opens before we can knock, revealing my mother in her cooking apron and a welcoming smile. She's lost weight since the last time I've seen her, and her hair is shorter. She looks younger somehow, unburdened in a way I don't remember seeing during my teen years.

"Cade!" She pulls me into a hug, then steps back to examine me with the particular scrutiny only mothers can achieve. "You look so good."

"Mom, this is Saylor," I say, drawing her forward with gentle pressure on her lower back. "Saylor, my mom, Elizabeth."

"It's so nice to meet you," Saylor says, extending her hand.

"The pleasure is all mine." My mother ignores the offered hand in favor of a quick hug. "I've heard that you've been keeping Cade good company."

Saylor glances at me, a question in her eyes.

"From Sandy, mostly," my mother clarifies with a knowing smile. "Cade's never been one for sharing details."

An understatement of epic proportions. I've inherited my father's emotional reticence, a trait I'm slowly unlearning with Saylor's patient help.

"Come in, come in. Sandy and Hannah aren't here yet." She steps back, ushering us into a bright entryway. "Dinner's nearly ready, but I wanted to give you the tour first. It's not much, but it's mine, and I'm rather proud of it."

The house is modestly sized but thoughtfully designed. A comfortable living room flows into an open kitchen and dining area, with large windows that fill the space with natural light. Nothing like the formal, compartmentalized rooms of my childhood home, where function always took a backseat to appearance.

"This is beautiful," Saylor says, her genuine tone obvious as she gawks around the room. "I love how open it is."

My mom beams, clearly pleased by the compliment. "That's exactly what sold me on it. Now, let me show you the rest before I need to check on the roast."

She leads us down a hallway, pointing out the features she's added since moving in — built-in bookshelves in the home office, a skylight in the main bathroom, new flooring throughout. The pride in her voice as she describes these changes reminds me that my mother is more than just "Mom" — she's a woman who survived a difficult marriage, who rebuilt her life on her own terms, who found joy and purpose beyond the roles of wife and mother.

"And this is the guest room," she says, opening a door to reveal a serene space in shades of blue and cream. "Not that I have many guests, but I like having it ready just in case one of you boys needs a place to crash."

"Gosh, it's so nice," Saylor gasps, admiring the simple decor.

"Why don't you two look down the hall while I check on dinner?" my mother suggests. "Cade, tell me honestly if there's anything you'd change. I value your eye for design."

As her footsteps retreat down the hall, I turn to Saylor with a raised eyebrow. "My eye for design? She must be confusing me with someone else."

"You have good taste in girlfriends. Sanderson thinks so too," Saylor points out with a teasing smile as I chuckle. "That counts for something."

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