Page 21 of Say Yes to the Hot Mess

“The Wizard of Ozis a masterpiece, and Judy Garland was aqueen,” she says archly, so I guess someone has strong feelings about this. I wisely choose not to respond, instead keeping my eyes firmly on the back of her head as she walks away, trying not to let my gaze dip lower than her neck.

Except…

“What’sthat?” I say, striding her direction and catching up before I can stop myself.

“What’swhat?” she answers. She’s stopped in place, but she hasn’t turned toward me. That’s probably just as well.

“There’s a bruise,” I say, reaching out to touch it before realizing I can’t just prod a virtual stranger in the back.

Maya has been rubbing her arms, I assume for warmth, but now one hand comes around and feels at her back.

“Here,” I say quietly, stepping closer and nudging her hand up her back just a little.

“Oh,” she says as her searching hand finds the strip of purplish skin. She looks over her shoulder at me, her gaze hitting me from beneath the longest, darkest eyelashes I’ve ever seen, and my stupid breath catches in my chest. I’m close enough to see that she’s covered in goosebumps, close enough to smell chlorine mixed with the faint scent of…what is that? Vanilla, maybe?

I want to know if she smells like vanilla. It doesn’t even make sense, but I want to know.

“That’s from your closet,” she says, snapping me out of my runaway thoughts. “In your office. I—” She breaks off, looking embarrassed. “I sort of stumbled backward into one of the shelves, I think.”

And it’s dumb, but somehow it suddenly feels like that bruise is my fault. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

She shrugs, still looking over her shoulder at me. “Don’t be. I’m the one who walked into the dang closet.” And with that she faces forward again and walks away.

“I would have gotten you the towel,” I call after her, because for some reason it feels important to me that she understands I’m not a horrible person.

But she just glares at me over her shoulder, and in spite of myself, I smile.

Five

Maya

As anyone could have predicted,the post-hot-tub walk across the yard is significantly chillier and more awkward without a towel wrapped around me. It doesn’t help that the sun is on its way down.

I’ve read about more than one heroine who claims to be able to feel when a man is looking at her—she’ll talk about his gaze boring into the back of her head or something—but I must be missing that particular sixth sense, because I have no idea if Dex is watching me walk away. Frankly, I’m skeptical about the whole phenomenon anyway. Still, I feel weirdly self-conscious about the way my body moves, the way my arms swing at my sides. Motherhood has softened my curves, leaving me with stretch marks in unfortunate places and increased cellulite in others. I try to remind myself that Imadea human being, that my stretch-marked body is where the most precious person in my life now lays his head to rest, but that acceptance is a work in progress.

Thanks to the baby monitor I know Archer is still fast asleep, but when I get upstairs I listen at his door for a moment anyway. In truth, the room he uses isn’t technically meant to be a bedroom, I don’t think; I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be a studio or office. It’s only accessible through my bedroom, which has its advantages and disadvantages. He sleeps with a white noise machine, though, so that I don’t have to tiptoe around my room in order to avoid waking him up.

Which means I’m perfectly safe as I flop down on my bed and then pull my phone out, finding Scarlett’s number and calling her—after I’ve changed out of my wet suit, of course.

“My neighbor is obnoxious and hot and he just saw my mom body in a swimsuit,” I say without preamble when she picks up.

“Sorry,” she says, sounding distracted, “hang on.” A second later, she goes on, “Okay, we’re good. Say that again.”

“My neighbor is hot and obnoxious and now he just saw my mom bod in a swimsuit. It was embarrassing. Plus somehow he just pushes all of my buttons, and I find myself wanting to argue with him just for the heck of it.”

“All right, first things first,” she says sternly. “Your mom bod is hot, and it built an entire baby. Mom bodies are awesome.”

“I know, I know,” I sigh, even as a rush of gratitude washes over me that she’s telling me the same things I try to tell myself.

“Good. In that case,” she says, and I picture her rubbing her hands together with glee. “Let’s go back to the part where he’s hot. Tell me more.”

I laugh tiredly. “He’s the community manager, Scar, and he’s trying to kick me out!”

“What do you mean, he’s trying to kick you out?”

“I mean he’s trying to kick me out,” I repeat, propping myself up on my elbow. “I guess the guy before him was the one my Uncle Frank talked to. He let me move in even though I’m not—you know.”

“Old enough?”

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