Page 35 of Roughing the Player
She smiles from ear to ear. “Oh, yes.” Clearly, she takes great pride in her child.
I search around the living room for a photo of her kid, but there isn’t one. “How old is she again?”
“Tw-ten.” Her face flushes as my fingers drift down her throat. Before I have time to pull her to me and kiss her the way I’m aching to, her phone rings. She retrieves it from her apron pocket. “It’s her. I have to take it.”
That’s my cue to leave. “Thanks again. I’ll bring him back in a couple of hours.”
She clutches the cell to her chest as if she’s trying to hold her daughter close. “Enjoy your afternoon with him.”
“I will.”
Once the door has closed, I don’t leave right away, but stand on her front porch, gazing at her house, wishing for something that can never be.
