Page 29 of A Better Place

“Well, I’m glad that’s settled.” Jack chuckles.

“Jack!” I say, my eyes going wide.

“What? He’s a nice guy, Mom. I told you that already. Let’s go grab something to eat. I’m starving.”

Sixteen-year-old boys, ladies and gentlemen. Blunt and to the point.

“At home. I look like crap, kiddo.”

“What did I tell you? Beautiful. Even after kicking Tate’s ass in the ring.” James winks at me.

“See? It’s settled. Let’s go grab a pizza or something. You up for that, James?”

“Oh, James probably doesn’t…”

“James does. Besides, I seem to recall telling Jack I would talk to him about the whole chef-thing, right, kid?”

“That’s right. See Mom? It all works out.” Traitor.

And that’s how I find myself sitting at the tiny little hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant one town over that neither Jack or I had ever heard about, but James knows the owner. And as we talk, laugh, and feast over cheesy garlic-bread knots with fresh marinara, a thin-crust, brick-oven pizza with house-made sausage, roasted red peppers, and fresh mozzarella, and house salads, I find that I can do slow. I also find that James Cole is a man that maybe I don’t want to do slow with, or keep in the friend-zone. Because, moment by moment he is seeping further into places that I’ve kept blocked off for a long while now and for the life of me, I can’t seem to care.

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