“Oh, sugar, you got that right,” Van adds. “He couldn’t keep his hand out of your hair.”
“And when you laid your cheek on his side, I thought he was going to carry you off, caveman-style,” Charly whispers.
“No way. He didn’t even react,” I insist.
“You couldn’t see his eyes,” Kate replies. “We could. We know. Flirt with him. And keep us posted.”
“I think you’re all nuts.”
“You’re nuts to ignore the two-hundred pounds of delicious man under your own roof.”
***
“Maybe I shouldn’t go,” Sam says with a worried frown as I fold his clothes and organize them into piles on his bed.
“You go every summer, buddy.” I march back to his dresser for more underwear and grab his swim trunks too. “It’s only for a week.”
“Eight days,” he reminds me. “Did you know that an ostrich eye is bigger than its brain?”
“Wow. They must have small brains.”
“Or big eyes,” Sam replies with a grin. My smart boy. And then he sobers again. “Sinceriously.”
“Sinceriously is not a word.”
“It means I’m sincerely serious,” he says and punches his fist into his baseball glove. “Won’t you miss me?”
“I’ll miss you every minute of the day,” I reply, and mean every word. “But your cousins in Florida love to see you, and Nannan loves to have you with her. It would hurt her feelings if you backed out now.”
Every summer we go through this, and every summer is the same. He’s nervous about leaving me, until he’s on the plane, and then it’s just a big adventure and I practically have to bribe him to come home.
“What about Mr. Rhys?”
I stop folding clothes and glance at my son, who continues to punch his fist into his mitt. “What about him?”
“Will he be gone when I get back?”
Ah, there it is.
“No, sweetie, he’ll still be here. He’s going to be here for a while.”
He lifts his big brown eyes to mine. “What if he doesn’t like me anymore when I get home?”
I laugh and begin organizing his suitcase.
“Now you’re just being silly. Of course he’ll still like you. I still like you when you come home, don’t I?”
“You have to like me. You’re my mama.”
I sit on the bed and pull him into my lap. When did he get so big?
“I love you, and Rhys likes you, and none of that will change when you get home.”
He snuggles against me, and I bury my nose in his hair. “Promise?”
“Of course I promise.”
“When do I get my dog?”
The change of subject makes me grin. “When it’s old enough to come home. About a month, I guess.”
“Okay.”
He scrambles off my lap and tosses a baseball into his suitcase. “Last year, Lennie lost my ball, so I better take a spare.”
“Good idea.”
“What are we having for dinner?”
“Fried chicken with collard greens and grits.”
“My favorite!”
“Of course. You’re going to be gone for a whole week.”
“Eight days.”
***
I can hear the guests chatting and laughing in the drawing room. It’s evening, and even on a Saturday night, they’ve returned to the inn rather than get wild and crazy in the city. I made sure there was plenty of wine, treats, and soft drinks to keep them happy before coming into the kitchen to deal with the dishes.
I don’t mind washing dishes by hand. It gives me time to stop moving long enough to think. To make plans. To daydream.
“What are you doing?”
Apparently, I was daydreaming deep enough to not hear Rhys come in the kitchen.
“I’m waxing the floor,” I reply sweetly. His eyes narrow as he approaches and takes in all of the dishes I still have to wash.
“Why are you doing all of this by hand?”
“Because the dishwasher died on me this morning. I need to call someone to come out and fix it, but I don’t want to pay weekend rates. Besides, the guests will be gone tomorrow.” I shrug and plunge a dinner plate in the soapy water, scrubbing furiously.
Rhys joins me, standing entirely too close.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
“Helping.”
“No. You help out all the time. I draw the line at washing dishes by hand.”
He smirks, grabs a towel and begins drying the dishes then putting them away. “You don’t need to wait on me hand and foot, Gabby.”
“Actually, I think that’s exactly what you’re paying me to do.”
“No,” he replies and brushes my hair behind my shoulder to avoid the water. “I’m paying to sleep in a room.”
“I’m not going to argue about this.”
“Good plan.”
Don’t argue, flirt!
Right. How do I do that, exactly?
“How was your day?” I ask, clearly failing at all things flirty.
“It was good. I had a call from a trainer that actually went well.”
“You did?” I glance up in surprise. I had no idea.
“Yeah, they want to check in each week to see how my workouts are going.”
“If Sam is bothering you when you workout—”
He slaps my ass with the dishtowel, then resumes drying dishes. “I told you he doesn’t bother me. He’s good company. Smart as hell, that kid.”