Page 13 of Daddy's Naughty Bartender
Jason: Home yet?
I smile despite myself. Bossy man.
Me: Just pulled in. Thank you again for tonight.
Jason: My pleasure. Sweet dreams, baby. Try not to overthink. Sometimes good things are just good things.
I stare at the message, at that casual endearment that makes my stomach flip. Then I see Josh's truck in the driveway, lights on in his room and reality crashes back. I'm a mother. A widow. A woman with baggage and responsibilities and a son who is hurting.
But for a few hours tonight, I've just been Karen. And God help me, I want to be her again.
Sometimes good things are just good things.
Maybe he's right. Maybe I can have this. All of it. A man who sees me, who makes me feel precious and desired and safe all at once.
Maybe, just maybe, I can let myself fall. Maybe I deserve a second chance at love.
CHAPTER 4
Ican't sleep.
One AM finds me in Mark's old study, my office now, though I still call it his, with a glass of wine and the journal Dr. Patterson insisted I start after Mark died. Five years of entries, and I've never written anything like what pours out of me now.
I'm losing my mind. Or finding it. I can't tell which.
Dear Diary,
There's this man. Jason. He looks at me like I'm precious and breakable and strong all at once. He called me 'baby' and 'good girl' and I nearly combusted on the spot. What kind of forty-two-year-old woman reacts like that?
The kind who's been empty for so long she forgot what it feels like to be full.
God, I miss being touched. Not just sex, though yes, that too, but touched like I matter. Like I'mworth gentle hands and careful attention. Jason touched the cut on my temple like it was sacred. Do you know how long it's been since someone checked if I was okay and actually waited for the answer?
Mark loved me, but it was comfortable love. Safe love. We were partners in all the practical ways. We built a life, a business, a family. But did he ever look at me like he wanted to devour me whole? Did he ever make me feel small and protected and cherished?
I feel guilty writing that. Like I'm betraying his memory. But Dr. Patterson says the dead don't own the living, and Mark would want?—
A knock on my door makes me slam the journal shut like a guilty teenager.
"Mom?" Josh's voice is small, uncertain. "Can I come in?"
"Of course, baby."
He shuffles in wearing his old Pokemon pajama pants and the guilt written all over his face. My boy, caught between child and man.
"Can't sleep either?" I ask.
"I'm sorry." The words tumble out in a rush. "About earlier. About accidentally knocking over the bottle and yelling at you and—God, Mom, I'm so sorry."
"Come here."
He folds himself into the chair across from me, all gangly limbs and remorse. He’s a senior in high school this year, been taller than me since he was in seventh grade. He’s on the verge of manhood and yet, when I look at him, I still see my baby boy.He’s as if someone hit control v on a computer and out popped a copy paste of his dad. "I was such an ass."
"Language."
"I was such a jerk." He picks at a thread on his pants. "It's just... seeing you with someone else..."
"I know."
