Page 84 of Second Chance Romance
The older woman harrumphed. “I suppose that’s acceptable. Additional tardiness may result in decreased wages, however.”
He dipped his chin in acknowledgment, then intervened before she finished rotating her walker to descend the porch steps. For once, she allowed him to take her elbow to help her stay upright and steady on her feet, and thank fuck forthat. Another broken hip, her asshole son in New York was gonna put her in a home, and she’d be totally miserable.
By the time he got Mrs. C comfortably settled in her recliner and sorted out her morning pill and breakfast situation, Molly had apparently registered his absence. When he let himself back into his home, she was sitting on the carpeted stairs and waiting for him, legs stretched out in front of her, wearing one of his old tees.
Fit her great. Especially since it left those long legs of hers bare.
Her kiss-swollen lips twitched. “Young man, huh?”
Apparently she’d heard the whole thing. Didn’t even look sleepy anymore. Damn shame. He’d hoped to climb back into bed and wake her up with something more enjoyable than an overly loud doorbell.
Arms folded across his chest, he leaned against his front doorand enjoyed the view. “Woman’s five hundred years old. To her, I’m still a kid. Always will be.”
“If I’m remembering correctly...” Her forehead creased in thought. “You used to mow her lawn every weekend from spring to fall and shovel her driveway and sidewalk every winter.”
Teenage Molly had been paying more attention than teenage Karl realized. “Still do.”
“For over twenty years now.” Her face had softened, her smile turning warm and sweet. “Out of curiosity, what kind of wages are you risking with your tardiness and unrepentant hooliganism?”
“Five bucks.” Same as ever. “Ten if I trim her hedges or do a bit of weeding.”
Every birthday, he also received a crisp twenty in a Hallmark card featuring Snoopy. Like clockwork. And every birthday, he snuck that twenty back into her purse when she wasn’t looking. Same with his yardwork income.
While he was growing up, Mrs. C had checked on him regularly. Strong-armed him over to her place whenever elementary school ended and his mom was running behind schedule. She’d bitched about his loudness, his messiness, his clothing, his terrible handwriting on his homework. She’d also planted powdery-lipstick kisses on his dirty forehead to show her approval when he aced quizzes and baked him chocolate-chip cookies from refrigerated dough.
He loved that woman. Planned to help her live forever, even if that meant doing her yardwork until the day he dropped dead himself.
Molly’s fingers plucked at the shitty beige carpet on his stairs. “My dad thought about hiring you to mow our lawn too. I don’t think I ever told you that.”
It was the first time she’d mentioned either of her parents sincereturning to Harlot’s Bay. Of her own volition, anyway, rather than in response to a direct question.
That had to indicatesomelevel of trust, right?
“Why didn’t he?” Teenage Karl would’ve jumped at the opportunity. The money would’ve been the least of it.
She frowned down at a bit of fuzz. “He enjoyed doing it himself. Said no matter how often he had to travel for work, he could still make sure his family had a nice yard.”
The weird inflection in her voice? He couldn’t read it. But it wasn’t happy reminiscence, that was for damn sure.
If he pushed too hard or too fast, she’d pull back. The reunion was next weekend, though. Only six days from now. If he didn’t ask now, maybe he’d never find another chance. And since his friends seemed to think the topic might be important...
“Speaking of your parents...” He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably against the paneled wooden door. “You haven’t said much about them. They okay?”
“Mom’s good.” Her shoulder lifted in a brief shrug, and she kept squinting at the carpet. “My father, I have no idea.”
Not dead, then. But not in her life. Which, knowing how undramatic a person Dearborn was, didn’t bode well.
Before he could gather the nerve to keep pressing, her head rose. She looked directly at him, her jaw set with determination. “Want a bonus secret, Dean?”
Abso-fucking-lutely. But first... “Cuddling okay with you?”
“Uh...” Her brows drew together. “Yeah. I guess.”
Pushing off the door, he grabbed her hand and towed her to the shadowy living room, then plopped down on the ancient couch and tugged her onto his lap. Because if she was going to share something shitty? He was going to hold her.
Briskly, trying not to elbow Molly in the face, he shook out the quilt hanging over the sofa back—his favorite of his mom’s work—then swaddled Molly and himself in the fluffy, lavender-scented cotton.
Way better. “Tell me.”
