“The milk was fine,” Josh told the older lady who entered the living room. “It’s 4C here who’s a bit curdled.”
“I’m not curdled,” Heather muttered.
She wanted nothing more than to run for the door, but then the other woman was coming toward her with a wide smile. “You must be the nice girl that moved into Mrs. Calvin’s place! Oh my, aren’t you pretty.”
Heather did find a smile for that, because, well, who wouldn’t?
“Don’t get excited,” Josh said in a loud whisper as he headed toward his kitchen. “She says that to all the girls.”
“I do,” Josh’s mom said with a wide smile. “But I don’t always mean it. Today I do.”
“Oh, well, thank you,” Heather said, lifting a self-conscious hand to her hair and trying to wrap it into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She liked her curls most of the time. Early morning before they’d seen shampoo or hair product was not one of those times.
“I’m Sue Tanner,” the other woman said, extending a hand.
“Heather Fowler.”
The other woman looked exactly as a mom who made pancakes was supposed to look. Short, a little bit plump, her hair short and curly and graying. She was well dressed but not Manhattan trendy. The smile, though, was the best part. Wide and friendly and genuine.
“So, you’re sure your last name isn’t Heather Foul?” Josh asked, glancing up from where he was reheating an electric kettle.
She would have given him the finger if not for the presence of his sweet mother.
“I should go,” Heather said, ignoring Josh altogether and pasting on a smile for Sue. “You’re welcome to the milk.”
Sue frowned. “You don’t like pancakes?”
“I—”
“Don’t fight it, 4C,” Josh said. “Coffee?”
He poured the water into a French press, the smell of dark roasty beans hitting her nostrils within seconds, and . . . damn. Heather was a sucker for a good cup of coffee, and somehow she knew this was going to be a good cup of coffee.
Josh caught her eye and winked. “Gotcha.”
“Shut up,” she muttered, earning a delighted laugh from Josh’s mom, who led her to the kitchen table.
“Sit,” Sue said. “You sit right there, and I’m going to make you the most delicious pancakes you’ve ever had while you tell me all about yourself.”
“She’s a wedding planner who’s not a night person, and apparently not a morning person, either,” Josh said. “She also hates music.”
“I don’t hate music, I hate you,” Heather said.
She glanced at Josh’s mom in apology for hating her son—but really, she did sort of hate him—and saw Sue giving Josh a curious look.
Josh noticed, too. “Mom. What.”
“You know what Heather does for a living,” Sue said, her eyes sparkling as she assembled a whole slew of ingredients on the counter.
“Because she told me.”
“You didn’t know what April did for a living.”
“Who’s April?” Heather asked, mostly because she sensed Josh was almost squirming, and it was lovely to turn the tables a bit.
“Josh’s overnight guest,” Sue said.
Heather glanced around. “I thought it smelled like bachelor pad in here.”
And it really was the quintessential man-space. From the dark leather couch and the TV the size of Montana right down to the guitar in the corner.
The guitar made her remember their first meeting, and she looked around curiously. “Where are the rest of your noisemakers?”
“Second bedroom,” Sue answered, apparently understanding Heather’s meaning perfectly. “Drums, more guitars, the whole deal.”
“I can’t believe the landlord lets you do that,” Heather said.
Josh shrugged. “The unit below me is the community space. As long as nobody has the room reserved for something, nobody’s there to hear us make noise or care. The staircase is on the other side, and on the other side is . . .”
“Me.”
“Yup.” He plunged the coffeepot. “And I just want you to know, I’d be happy to take any requests for your favorite songs. A nice lullaby to get you to sleep, perhaps?”