Page 55 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
“I wanna throw one too. This hurts!”
“I know, baby. I’m sorry.” I pop up and grab some children’s aspirin from the bathroom along with a glass of water. “Here. Take these.”
She glares at me. “This issodumb.”
“It is. And you’re going to want the pills. Trust me.”
She takes them like a champ and scowls. “What now?”
I take her to the bathroom and show her how to use a pad. After several disgusted and disappointed faces, she orders me out of my own bathroom so she can try to do this on her own.
Fair enough.
But waiting on the outside of the bathroom isn’t easy. Not that I want to be in there with her for this part, but if she needs me, I want to be there for her. “I’m right here, baby?—”
“I know!” she barks through the door.
“Don’t forget—the wings go on the underside?—”
“Where else would they go, Mom?”
Well, she’s got the surly thing perfected for her teenage years. “If you need anything?—”
“I know, I know,” she grumbles. I hear the toilet flush and a quick wash of the hands. When she pops out, she whines, “How can I make it stop?”
“There isn’t a way to do that, I’m afraid.”
“Well, that’s stupid too.”
“You’re absolutely right about that.” I step around the desk, brush her braid back from her face, and kiss her forehead. She squirms, but doesn’t pull away. “You want to get out of here for a little bit?”
Her eyes narrow. “Like…out-out?”
“Just us. No guards. No brothers. No ‘you’re becoming a woman’ speeches. Just ice cream and maybe some shopping to make you feel better.”
She hesitates. Then nods. “Okay. But if you make it weird, I’m going to run into traffic.”
“Deal.”
I grab my keys from the drawer under the bookshelf, text Jessica a quickTaking M out for a bit. Don’t worry, and then glance toward the hallway.
I should tell Sean or Wes. I should let someone know. But if I do, they’ll insist on coming, which means they’ll want to know what’s going on, and Maeve doesn’t need that.
She needsme.Not a wall of muscle hovering in the frozen yogurt line.
I take her hand. “Sneaky exit?”
She grins. “Sneaky exit.”
We slip out the side door, through the back gate, and into my black Range Rover like we’re fleeing a heist. I don’t feel guilty. Not yet. Not until the last click of the gate behind us feels a little too final.
Maeve picks the spot—a little scoop shop on Ventura with chalkboard menus, pastel chairs, and the kind of teenage staff that looks like they’d die before asking for a photo.
Perfect.
She orders a triple scoop of cookies and cream with hot fudge and gummy worms, then glares at me like I’m about to say something about sugar.
I raise both hands. “I said ice cream. I didn’t sayresponsibleice cream. It’s your day, baby, get whatever you want. Extra whipped cream, sprinkles, double fudge, I do not care today.”
