Page 11 of Sleepless Nights and Hockey Fights

“Dinner,” I repeat, adding, “I made hurricane tacos,” to tempt him. It works. The door swings open a second later to reveal my kid, brown and copper hair a tousled mess and bringing with him an odor I like to calleau de boy.

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” He shoots me a devilish grin that makes me wonder if I imagined his earlier tone. But before he can race off to devour the tacos, his eyes drop to the hand not holding my ponytail in place. “What isthat?!”

I hold up the auburn hairpiece for his inspection. It’s the longer one I integrate into my own thinning hair to make my ponytail full and bouncy. Another gift of middle age. “It’s justhair. Not a tarantula.” He doesn’t appear the least bit comforted, so I show him the little clips that secure it to my head. “Women have lots of secrets, kid. It’s probably best you learn these things early on.”

His lip curls. “It’s still creepy.”

I give him a friendly shove toward the kitchen and follow him there. “‘Tis the season, I suppose. Speaking of which, we’re seriously running short on time for your Halloween costume.”

We never do store-bought costumes at the Sparks house. Blake used to be the one to dream up ideas with Matty, and then we’d work on the costumes together, sometimes all of us dressing up in a theme. Last year was the first time Matty wanted to go it alone, even insisting on trick-or-treating with a friend instead of allowing me or his dad to tag along.

“Halloween costumes are for losers.” He drops a knee to a chair and reaches over to grab a taco from the plate in the center of the table, and I halt, frowning at him.

“Since when?” I try keeping any emotion out of my voice. I knew this day would come, of course, but I didn’t expect it to be so sudden or feel so jarring.

Matty just rolls his eyes, his mouth occupied now with the taco. Dinner needed a short prep time tonight since I’m meeting up with my new client in less than thirty minutes. Hurricane tacos provided the perfect solution, named as such when I invented them while we hunkered down with no power during Hurricane Irma several years back. Just some canned chicken, diced tomatoes, cheese, and a dash of taco seasoning, all wrapped up in a tortilla. They’re one of Matty’s favorites.

I duck into the half-bathroom just off the kitchen to finish my hair. “So, I guess candy is for losers too, then?” I ask, raising my voice to be heard.

“Yeah, right,” Matty scoffs. “We’re still trick-or-treating; we’re just not wearing costumes,” he clarifies. I don’t botherasking if theweincludes me since I know it doesn’t. Sigh. Oh well. I’ll just hang back and enjoy the cute little kids in their adorable costumes while I hand out candy here.

Securing the last clip in place and smoothing down any flyaways, I bustle back to the kitchen and grab my bag. “I’ve got some showings to do. Don’t forget to finish your homework before any video games, okay?” I eye him meaningfully. He hasn’t tripped up since his detention over a week ago, and I’d like to keep it that way. “I’ll be back by eight-thirty. Ramona’s home next door. Call if you need anything.”

Then I bend to drop a quick kiss on his head before he can duck away. Ha! Too slow for this mom.

Twenty minutes later, I pace in the lobby of the realty office, chewing my lip to shreds while I wait for Bobby Rhodes and his spaceship truck. I was able to push my nervousness off while he was out of town, but as his arrival looms, my sweat glands lose their grip and go into turbo mode. No amount of fanning or flapping my arms can help the wetness from seeping into the armpits of my blouse. Dammit!

Of course, Bobby is right on time, loping up the walkway and smiling broadly when he spies me through the glass doors.

“Nice digs,” he says as soon as he enters. I follow his gaze around the lobby, taking in the familiar furnishings and art. Of course, it was all selected by Coco and, therefore, is exquisite.

“That settee belonged to Gianni Versace himself,” I say, hoping Bobby will keep his eyes on the furniture and not my growing sweat stains. Unlike me, he appears cool as a wedge salad, all loose-limbed and dressed to kill in designer jeans and a shirt with a loud retro pattern I’m guessing only about five guys in the world could pull off—Bobby Rhodes being one of them.

“If you’ll excuse me for just one moment,” I say with a polite smile before hauling ass to the restroom where I instruct myreflection to hold her shit together while I dab at my armpits with paper towels.

“Ready?” I ask when I return, my tone striking the perfect balance between cheerful and professional.

Bobby’s eyes briefly scan me from top to toe before he cocks his head and holds the door open for me. “Ladies first.” He’s equally polite when opening the car door, and I half expect a cloud of vapor to billow out of the Cybertruck. It doesn’t, of course, so I’m soon settled in the passenger seat after a hand up from Bobby.

I read him the first address, and he enters it into the vehicle’s navigation system before smoothly pulling out of the small parking lot.

“How’s your son liking hockey?” he asks. “His name is Matt, right?”

I glance over from the printed listings in my lap and nod. “Matthew. He seems to love it, although I think he’s frustrated he hasn’t mastered all the skills yet.”

Bobby flashes me a dimple and I ignore the flipping of my belly. “I’ve been playing for twenty years and I still haven’t mastered them all.”

I smile and shrug one shoulder. “The impatience of youth.” It’s not lost on me that Bobby could be closer to Matty’s age than my own—just one more reason not to let my hormones get feisty. To that point, I turn back to professional mode. “This first house is still occupied. That’s why we’re viewing it before the other two, which are vacant. We’ve got more wiggle room with timing on those.”

“Isn’t it going to be weird if we’re walking around in these people’s houses while they’re eating dinner or whatever?”

I blink a couple times before looking over at Bobby with a knit brow. “They’re not going to be home, Bobby. That’s why I made an appointment.”

One of his hands goes to the back of his neck, his expression turning chagrined. “Oh. I guess that makes more sense.”

Without thinking, I reach over to pat his denim-covered knee. “It’s okay. This is your first rodeo house hunting.” His eyes drop to my hand, and I quickly snatch it away, but not before taking note of the hard muscles under my palm. What was I thinking? God, he’s either assuming I think he’s a child or I’m trying to cop a feel. Good Christ. I start talking to cover my embarrassment. “You’re actually way ahead of the game in a lot of ways. Not many other people your age are taking on mortgages and picking out backsplashes.”

His lips curve as he turns left at an intersection, as instructed by his navigation system—which has a sultry Australian accent, of course. “First, what the hell is a backsplash? And second, how young do you think I am?”

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