Page 77 of Make Mine Sweet
He doesn’t mean it in some fantasy, “Welcome back to our shared home” situation. He’s stating the obvious, that’s all. But the greeting does something funny to me anyway, twining with his smile and August’s giggles to create a warm hug I want to burrow into.
“Mama!” August waves. “Ian’s telling jokes. I told you he was funny. Now tell one for Mama, Ian.”
I join them on the patio and drop into an empty chair at the table.
Ian looks me over like he’s sizing me up, trying to figure out the best joke for me. “How about I help you tell her one?”
August agrees, so Ian leans closer to whisper in his ear. It must be a good one because August starts giggling before he can even repeat it.
“I hope you know CPR.” More giggles. “Because you take my breath away!”
August drops his head to the metal tabletop as if that joke is the height of comedy.
“A little EMT humor?” I ask Ian.
His gaze never leaves me. “Something like that. How was your day?”
“My sense of smell is fried from all the key lime pies we’re making this week, but it’s good.” I smell the same tart scent everywhere I go now. An occupational hazard in my line of work.
“I like lime pie,” August tells me.
I lean closer to run my hand over his pale, soft hair. “You like everything sweet. How was your day here?”
“Great!” he says. “We played games and washed Dutch, and we walked on the trail!”
“You were busy.” I shift my attention to Ian, who hasn’t stopped watching me since he spotted me in the doorway. “How are you holding up? Tired?”
His eyes sparkle at me. “Sounds like you expect me to wave the white flag and surrender already.”
I’m honestly relieved that wasn’t the first thing out of his mouth.Welcome home. I quit.I guess I should have had a little more faith in his dedication to the challenge.
I willnotthink about him possibly being dedicated to anything else.
“I read somewhere that babysitting kids is twice as hard as climbing mountains,” I tell him.
He narrows his eyes on me, looking as stern as he did the day I first pulled up to this place. It’s messed up that his glower makes my stomach tumble, right? But there it goes, dipping and swooping like a kite caught in a draft.
“Your source is wrong,” he says. “It’s three times as hard.”
He breaks his teasing scowl, but not our eye contact.
“No unexpected questions, I hope?” I’m not prepared to tell August about the birds and the bees tonight. I need some kind of kid-friendly book to help me out, at least.
“Only about my freckles.”
“He said a fairy painted them on him at night when he was a little boy,” August pipes up. “The Freckle Fairy.”
“She ran out of freckle juice when she was done with me.” Ian runs a hand over one freckle-covered arm. From the memory of him shirtless that’s seared on my mind, he’s covered in them. “Had to start painting spots on ladybugs instead.”
“You’re silly.” Judging by his grin, August is a big fan of the sillies. He whips his head around to me. “Mama, can Ian have dinner with us?”
“Ian’s probably tired and needs a break,” I answer before he can turn his request into a whole thing. I don’t want to impose on Ian more than we already have today.
But he glances away, a hint of his genuine scowl returning. I thought I was giving him an easy out, but it doesn’t look like the prospect of being alone appeals to him the same way it once did.
“Unless you want to stay for dinner,” I add. “I’m thinking tacos, nothing special. But you’re welcome to join us. If you want.”
He looks from August, who’s already cheering, to me. “I like tacos.”
