Page 37 of Play Dirty

Score one for me.

Why do I feel like a teenager all of a sudden?

“I’m glad I could…help you with this.”

“It means a lot to me, Marty. Really. I owe you one.” She leans up and brushes her lips across my cheek. Then she turns, staring out at the view again.

And once again, a tender moment between us is gone.

I’m frustrated, especially since I know she liked it, but what else can I do? I asked her out, then took her for a romantic drive, and now I’ve kissed her. If that doesn’t show her how much I like her, this might be her way of telling me she’s not interested.

I guess I could man up and tell her I’d like to take her on an official date, but what if she shoots me down? I come with a lot of baggage, and she has plenty of her own. I don’t know what either of us brings to the table for the other one. Her disastrous past coupled with my messy custody battle—it’s got disaster written all over it.

Maybe she’s doing both of us a favor.

* * *

I seethe light on in the den when I get home and figure my mom is probably up reading. The den is cozy, with a reading nook built into the bay window that Brenna insisted on even though she never once used it. And I’m not much of a reader. It’s a nice place to relax, even if you don’t read, so I sit there sometimes with my coffee. Or a late-night glass of bourbon.

As expected, she’s sitting there reading.

“Hey, Mom.”

She looks up with a smile. “How was your date?”

“It wasn’t a date, but it was fun. I really like Stevie.”

She cocks her head. “You really like her? Because the kids certainly do. Emma talked of nothing else but Auntie Stevie braiding her hair and Auntie Stevie’s bow… who, exactly, is Auntie Stevie?”

“Stevie Marchand.” I pause. “The supermodel.”

Mom is quiet for a minute and then her forehead wrinkles as she squints. “That Stevie Marchand? Like Victoria’s Secret Stevie Marchand?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“You’re dating her?”

“We’re friends. No benefits.”

“Oh.” She looks momentarily shell-shocked. “I had no idea. How come no benefits? Whose rule is that?”

I chuckle, leaning against the back of the sofa. “It’s not a rule, per se. It’s just that she’s coming out of an abusive relationship and I’m in divorce hell. We decided being friends would be easier.”

“For whom?”

“I don’t know. Probably for both of us.”

“But you like her.”

“Yeah.”

“The kids like her.”

I smile. “They do.”

“Kids usually know.”

“What do they know?”

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