Page 55 of Unrivaled

Boosting him into my arms, I straighten and take in Tiffany as she sets his tiny backpack and a navy blue roller suitcase covered in colorful dinosaurs inside the door.

Under her open gray wool peacoat, she’s wearing a royal blue dress with a plunging neckline that skims over her curves before flaring at her hips and swishing around her thighs just above her knees as she moves. Heeled knee high boots leave only a tiny strip of skin exposed below the hem.

She’s going on a date tonight. I’d almost managed to forget, but I can’t even pretend to with her dressed like that.

I bite back the growl of jealousy that wants to rise up in my throat. I have no claim on her. And apparently she agreed to go out with this guy before we’d kissed. Which, I guess at least it wasn’t after, but that’s small consolation, especially when I want to take her out and show her off, take her dancing so that skirt can flare out, watch the flush travel from her neckline up to her cheeks and then taste it as I peel her dress off.

I ruthlessly cut off that train of thought.

I don’t need a semi—or worse—while holding my three-year-old son.

Clearing my throat, I turn away to set Ben in front of his shark chair. “Settle in,” I tell him, forcing myself not to ask any questions about Tiffany’s date. I don’t want to know. And it’s none of my business anyway. “I’m gonna finish dinner, and then we can watch a movie and have some popcorn, okay?”

He claps his little hands and scoots back into the chair. “Ice cream too?”

Tiffany moves past me, tucking her dress around her thighs as she crouches in front of Ben with her knees together. She leans in and gives him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Be good for Grayson, okay? And Mommy’s just a phone call away if you need anything. Sleep good.”

He throws his arms around her neck and gives her a big squeeze and a big smacking kiss on her cheek. She holds him for a shade longer than normal, like she’s reluctant to let him go. But then she releases him and stands, meeting my eyes briefly as she heads for the door. “You guys have fun tonight. And if he needs me for any reason—anyreason—call me. Okay?”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” I reassure her, slightly annoyed at the idea that she thinks I might not be able to handle one night with a little kid.

She narrows her eyes and points a finger at me. “I mean it. Call me. No matter what.”

I’m tempted to salute, but I’m not sure she’d appreciate it, so instead I say, “Yes, ma’am.” That gets me more of her narrow-eyed glare, and I hold up my hands in surrender. “I promise. If he wants you at all, we’ll call, okay?”

She looks at me for another long moment before nodding. “Thank you.”

* * *

Once Tiffany leaves, we have dinner in the living room, because I might as well make being here as fun as possible, right? Except that Ben trying to eat macaroni noodles in a bean bag chair is actually a terrible idea.

But when I suggest moving to the table, he wails, “Nooooo,” like I just suggested that we start murdering puppies.

I manage to convince him to sit on the floor at the coffee table so we can watchMonsters, Inc, which is apparently his favorite movie. After we finish our dinner, I pause the movie and make popcorn, having Ben eat his at the coffee table still.

He doesn’t last long on the floor by himself, though. The monsters scaring kids is too real to him, I guess, and before I know it, he’s burrowing into my side, his plastic bowl tipping, popcorn kernels spilling onto the couch. I scoop them up and deposit them on a napkin on the coffee table before wrapping my arm around him. “It’s alright,” I reassure him quietly. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

He whimpers, his little arm wrapping around my middle, more popcorn spilling between us. But right now I don’t care. I can clean up popcorn later. He’s wanting comfort. From me.

Scooching down, I set my bowl on the cushion on his other side, pulling him closer and up so his head is on my shoulder. Once we get past the scary part, he relaxes, burrowing in again any time something tense happens on screen.

All too soon for my liking, the brief interlude where I’m comfort more than playmate is over. He’s bouncing on the couch chanting, “Ice cream! Ice cream! Ice cream!”

Chuckling, I stand. “I did promise ice cream tonight, didn’t I?”

He nods, bounding after me into my tiny kitchen. “Pick out a bowl,” I tell him, pointing at the cabinet where his dishes are stashed. He comes up with a green one, handing it to me as I pull the carton of ice cream from the freezer. I give him a small scoop, then pull out a bowl for myself, and dish out the same amount. Much as I’d love to dig in and eat the whole carton, that would be both a bad example to my son and a lecture from my coach and nutritionist when they see my food log.

We eat our ice cream at the dining table with Ben in the sleek white booster seat my mom picked out the night of our shopping spree. It has straps, but I don’t bother with them, since Ben climbs in and out of his chair pretty competently. After we finish—Ben with chocolate ice cream smeared all around his mouth—I wipe him down, rinse our bowls and declare it time to get ready for bed.

And that’s when the problems begin.

First, he crosses his arms and refuses. “No.”

“Come on, Ben. We’ll do it just like your mom does, okay? She told me everything. I got you covered. Let’s go to the bathroom and get started.”

“No.” No conversation. No reasoning. Just a flat, unequivocalno.

Ummm … I really don’t know how to handle this.

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