I unlock the front door. “Do you have everything? Did you put on sunscreen?”
“I did. I also just had an idea. If I tell you you’re cool, will you play baseball with me after work?” He sounds devilishly strategic, and I’m impressed. I love a Machiavellian brain, especially in a nearly ten-year-old.
I stroke my chin, pretending to consider it. “All right. If you insist.”
“You’re cool,” he says, with a couple of I got you nods.
I open the door, let him go ahead of me, then pull it closed and lock it. “Joke’s on you. I was going to play baseball with you anyway.”
He shrugs and gives me a smile. “I know. I just like to pretend I actually think you’re cool.”
I ruffle his hair as we go down the steps. “You are proof sarcasm is genetic.”
“I am.”
As he bounds ahead of me, I linger on that word—genetic. Like that, my mind makes the familiar trip back to Florida and his early years. How else did genetics show up back then? When he walked? When he talked?
What was his first word?
Shit.
I never asked his mom.
Now I’ll never know. I’ll never know, either, how he looked toddling around the house, flinging mashed peas from a high chair, or learning to ride a bike.
I’ll never know what it’s like to have comforted him when he tumbled and got that first scraped knee. He could already wheel around fine on his own when he arrived in New York.
I blink the longing away.
Focus on the here and now.
Once inside the garage, we grab our gleaming new bikes from the rack. I roll them out to the driveway, stopping to press the button to close the garage behind us. As I strap on my helmet, my eyes are drawn to next door where—just my luck—January is loading a toolbox into her truck.
I devour the view. She’s wearing work boots, jeans, and a tight pink T-shirt with a logo reading “Jackie of All Trades.” And hell, does her arse look great in those jeans. But then, it looks great in everything. Probably in nothing too, come to think of it.
I banish the dirty thought as she swivels around, raises her shades, then says, “Are you off for a bike ride?”
It comes out sounding confused, even though we’re both standing here with bikes. “Are we?”
“You’re in scrubs,” she says, pointing. “That’s why I asked.”
“I look pretty cool in scrubs, don’t I?”
She arches a doubtful brow. “I think if they had pink unicorns on them, they’d be cooler.”
“Duly noted.”
“And where are you heading, Ethan?” she asks him.
But before he can answer, I chime in, unable to resist poking fun at my kid. “Is it your papier-mâché camp? Oh, wait, is it pottery making? No, it’s underwater basket weaving, right?”
He cracks up then turns to January and squeaks, “Baseball camp! I like baseball. Actually, that’s wrong. I love baseball.”
“You have excellent taste in sports,” she says.
“He’s a junkie for America’s pastime,” I tell her. “As am I.”
Is that genetic too? Or did it start when he moved in with me? Certainly, his love of the sport grew stronger. Regular attendance at Yankee Stadium will do that to a lad.
Ethan smacks his palm against his forehead. “Dad, I did forget my sunscreen.” He sets the bike on the driveway, races up the steps, and unlocks the door.
While he’s inside, January cuts across the lawn, standing near me in the driveway. “So you’re going to ride into work looking like that?”
My brow furrows. “Yes. Is that a problem?”
“You realize you’ll get double the number of dates that you did sitting at the wine bar the other day.”
Gossip had carried the tale to her long before I had a chance to share the story.
“Double? More than when I dine outside? Whoa.”
“Hello? Hot, healthy, eco-conscious vet who rides a bike to work?”
I like the sound of that when she says it. My skin sizzles. “So, I’m a hot vet?”
She rolls her eyes, then shoos me away. “Don’t act like you didn’t know that, Liam.” She flicks her fingers, telling me to be on my way, as Ethan returns and hops onto his bike. I hop onto mine, waving goodbye, and I savor that very lovely compliment that I shouldn’t like so much, but I do.
Oh, I absolutely do.
After I drop Ethan off at the baseball park, I ride a few miles to the building marked with a sign that reads: Lucky Falls Veterinary Practice, Dr. Harris, DVM. The practice is on a side street also occupied by a spa and a hair salon. You can get pampered while your pet gets poked. It’s only a couple of miles away from Duck Falls.
I pull into the lot, my eyes drifting to the sign, my heart squeezing tightly as I think about that Dr. Harris. The first one. The reason I moved from one coast to the other.
