Page 69 of Moms of Mayhem
It was him. I was almost sure of it.
I brought everything inside, set the books gently on the coffee table, and unfolded the blanket across my lap as I curled up on the couch. The house was quiet, only the gentle hum of the appliances to keep me company, but I didn’t feel as alone.
Reaching forward, I grabbed the book off the top and flipped it over to discover it was a hockey romance about a single mom. I let out a quiet laugh as I read the blurb about her falling for her son’s coach.
The next one was another variation: small-town romance with a heroine falling for her brother’s best friend.
Then childhood friends to lovers.
All different titles, all the same gentle nudge.
Someone knewexactlywhat they were doing.
Without thinking too hard about it, I pulled my phone from my pocket and snapped a picture—my lap covered in the soft coral throw, the first book centered neatly in the middle. I texted it to Beckett.
Emmy
Thank you.
Beckett
Looks like a good book. You’ll have to tell me about it in the morning.
Still no confirmation. No admission.
But I couldn’t stop the smile that took over my face, slow and warm and certain.
Beckett was giving me the space I asked for while making sure I knew I wasn’t alone.
No one had ever done that for me before.
21
“Another present?” my mom asked one morning, her eyes glistening with excitement. “I taught you well, son.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, clutching the terribly wrapped box to my stomach. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She let out a little laugh, adjusting the blanket over her legs on the new couch. “What did you get this time?”
My gaze slid down to the box in my hands, this one full of self-care items I’d purchased based on the guidance of an Instagram reel. “Stuff.”
This was the fifth day of presents I’d left on Emmy’s doorstep, hoping to brighten her day while Jace was gone. But then I saw the shy smile when she’d asked if the puzzle was from me, and I was addicted.
Each day I’d left something I knew she’d like on her doorstep, never extravagant but always picked with intention. But then Emmy started trying to catch me, and it became a game.
Two days ago, I barely made it back to the truck beforeher porch light clicked on. I peeled out of her driveway, heart pounding like I’d toilet-papered her house instead of leaving a gift basket with one of Tate’s hot pretzels and a case of cold Diet Coke cans.
Luckily, I had a misspent youth in Linwood that gave me plenty of ideas as to how I could do this and remain stealthy.
The next day, I parked two houses down, cut through a backyard, and hovered behind her recycling can for a full two minutes while her neighbor walked her dog in slow motion.
How an injured six-foot-four NHL hockey player hid behind a bin of flattened cardboard boxes was a mystery even to me. But I did it, all so I could leave a big bag of peach candy tied with ribbon and a note that read,
For when the week gets a little sour.
It was a good thing I was on long-term injured reserve—if the Yeti boys knew I was sitting here leaving presents on my crush’s doorstep, I’d never hear the end of it.
“She’s onto me,” I muttered as I grabbed my keys.
