Page 25 of Don't Call Me Sweetheart

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I confessed.

“Well, yeah.” She squeezed my elbows. The gesture was oddly comforting. “I don’t know what I’m doing either. Isn’t that the point of this? Of…us? To figure it out? You know, practice.”

Right. Practice. That’s what this was. I exhaled deeply as the panic ebbed. There was no reason for fight-or-flight. I was safe. And sure, maybe it was going to take a while for my lizard brain—and its determination to save me from the horrors of being too happy—to catch up to the reality that I was no longer walking a barbed-wire tightrope of survival, and I didn’t need saving from a beautiful woman who smelled like vanilla and chocolate.

And that was what Kate was for. I wasn’t there yet, and neither was she.

But we could practice.

Chapter 10

Kate

With Betty and Jean on hand to assist customers, I spent Saturday afternoon decorating Sweet Things for autumn with Jessica. It was our tradition to change the theme every month.

When Jessica had been little, I had relied on window decals and cutesy knickknacks from Sunny’s Sundries Shop on Main Street or the Target in Asheville. As Jessica had gotten older, the window decals had been replaced by hand-drawn paintings. Simple things at first. Jack-o’-lanterns for Halloween, flowers or hearts for Valentine’s Day, a surfboard for summer, snowflakes for winter. Now those window paintings were intricate, detailed depictions that drew crowds and never failed to make me catch my breath with wonder at my daughter’s talent.

Just like her father.

Could artistic ability be an inherited trait? Teaching and lessons had helped her talent along, of course. I had done right by him there. From the moment Jessica had shown an inclination, I had signed her up for art classes. George couldn’t have faulted me, if he had been alive to see it.

But what about the raw heart and instinct that had inspired it in the first place? I liked to think Jessica had inherited it from her dad. Jessica had George’s dimple in both cheeks and his bronzed skin, but that was just appearances. I wanted her to have something of his character as well. His soul.

Three years, most of that time separated for his military deployments, hadn’t been long enough to share that with her. And George had so much goodness in him to share. I believed that with every cell of my body.

Even though he hadn’t wanted me, in the end.

I watched from my limited viewpoint of ladder-holder as Jessica transformed the glass into Hart Mountain at the peak of autumnal splendor, the majestic oaks and sugar maples painted brilliant shades of gold, red, and orange. I had taken special care to ensure the ladder was properly balanced on the brick sidewalk and blocked off the area with orange cones to make sure that no one got too close to Jessica. Every now and then, someone stopped to ohhhh and ahhh at Jessica’s creation.

Next to my nose, a dark green spruce poked through the colorful foliage. The meticulous detail of a pinecone awed me, but the color of the spruce made my mind wander back to last night. It was the same shade of green as Max’s eyes right before he kissed me.

I touched my mouth at the memory, causing the ladder to reverberate ever so slightly.

“Mom!” Jessica protested.

I blinked. My momentary lapse hadn’t put Jessica in danger—the ladder was sturdy even without my grip—but it had caused her to misplace a line of red paint. I winced. “Sorry, honey.”

“It’s okay. I can fix it.”

I tilted my head back, trying to assess the damage. “It won’t happen again.”

“Chill, Mom. I said I can fix it.” I could almost hear the eye roll in my daughter’s voice. “Maybe you should let go. Let the ladder do its job without your interference.”

“Are you saying I’m not helping?” I asked dryly, even though the words hurt. Just a tiny bit. Teenagers had that way, I had come to learn. “Rude.”

“I’m saying…what if you have to sneeze? The ladder is safe, Mom. Let go. I’m not even that high.”

I sighed and stepped back, still close enough to grab the ladder should it suddenly become unstable. Or at least use my own body to protect Jessica’s in a fall. “I’ll just stand here for moral support, I guess.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

I pretended the note of sarcasm in my daughter’s voice didn’t exist.

My gaze fell on the spruce again. That kiss. I couldn’t stop a silly, sloppy grin from spreading across my face. It had been even better than the first time. Lack of nerves, maybe, with sex off the table—for that night anyway, a thought that now sent a delicious thrill down my spine. Because it wasn’t off the table for next time, whenever that would be.

And it had affected him as much as it had me, unless I was very much mistaken. Considering I had felt his arousal up close and personal against my stomach, I doubted I was wrong.

“Mom. What is that?”

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