Page 55 of Mountain Man

I wished I had the luxury of time to figure Waylon out on my own—something more than the average forty-minute booty call would allow. But there was no such thing as privacy in this town.

Gossip was currency. It was considered a good deed to know what was going on with your neighbor…in case of emergency, of course. If I hoped to keep off the gossips’ radar or maintain a low frequency, I was really going to have to think of something other than birdhouses.

Thankfully, my kids and Nicole were clueless about my internal freak-out session.

“Food, eh?” Nicole narrowed her eyes as she plucked a couple of menus from under the counter. “Your favorite booth just opened up. Follow me, troops.”

“Wait.” Gretchen tapped Waylon’s arm. “Do you want to eat with us? Then you don’t have to sit alone, and I won’t have to listen to Dad and Rhys talk about football for an hour.”

“She wants your fries,” Rhys teased. “Just kidding. You should join us.”

Waylon glanced at me as if for confirmation, but Nicole didn’t hesitate. She picked up his plate and inclined her head.

“Right this way! I’ll hook these guys up with a side of fries while you get started on your dinner.”

“Yes!” Gretchen cheered.

“Cool,” Rhys agreed.

“I don’t know if I should⁠—”

“You should,” I intercepted. “Please.”

Waylon held my gaze for a beat, then nodded. And under the watchful stare of a table of loggers, Dean Collins of Dean’s Shoe Repair and his wife, and Cora Stevinski, a high school friend of Jess’s…and her entire book club, we made our way to a window booth with a view of Wood Hollow Market and the entrance to the mill.

We sat across from each other with a kid on either side and talked about…birdhouses, woodpeckers, music, a video game I’d never heard of, and Fallbrook’s upcoming Harvest Festival.

“I heard they’re going to have real rides this year. Like a Ferris Wheel and one of those spinning G-rides, like a Tilt-a-Whirl but at the end, it has a major drop so your brains get scrambled and your heart gets stuck in your throat,” Rhys reported, hovering his fork over a generous helping of mashed potatoes. “Sounds awesome.”

“No, it doesn’t. Is that true, Dad?” Gretchen fussed with the end of one of her braids as she shifted to address Waylon. “My dad is in charge of everything. He has to sign off on the rides, and he won’t do it if they’re too dangerous. Last year they wanted pendulum swings that go super high, but Dad was against it.”

“Yeah, so they went low and slow. So boring.” Rhys gave a thumbs-down and tossed a teasing look at his father. “If you were five or under, it was okay. Everyone else thought it was a waste of space.”

Waylon snickered, shaking the ice in his near empty glass. “Your dad is in charge of…everything? What is he, like a king or something?”

The kids giggled. Genuine, honest-to-God giggles. I hadn’t heard that kind of unchecked sweetness in a few weeks. I’d assumed teenage angst and the questionable joys of navigating middle school and high school had ushered in a new, more serious phase of life.

Dinners at our house weren’t formal affairs. We were a grab and go kind of family, but I tried to make sure we sat together a few nights a week to share tidbits of our days. If they didn’t seem interested in participating, I brought up foolproof topics. Rhys loved football, Gretch liked science and fantasy books. Totally different subjects, which meant the other kid zoned out till dinner was over and they were free to get on with their evening.

Sometimes I worried that my efforts came across as controlling or too clumsy. Maybe that was why Rhys never talked about his girlfriend and Gretchen refused to discuss her feelings. Apparently, she’d been devastated that one of her classmates had moved out of state, and I hadn’t known about it till her mom told me.

Had I accidentally become the parent I’d never wanted to be? Clueless? Out of touch? Unapproachable? I didn’t think so, but I had a crippling fear of history repeating itself.

I could beat myself up later. For now, I just wanted to bask in the sunshine.

“I think I’m more of an archduke,” I offered.

More laughter.

Rhys snorted. “What’s an archduke, anyway?”

“Oh, I know this one!” Gretch thrust her hand in the air like an overeager student. “Archiduke comes from Latin. Archi means high or important and dux means lead. So Dad’s an important leader.”

I cut into the herb-roasted chicken breast on my plate. “Or…I’m a police officer.”

“Yes, but we can pretend you’re an archduke, and that makes me a princess.” Gretchen fluttered her long lashes and made a funny face as she set an invisible crown on her head.

Rhys flicked a straw wrapper at her, which should have started a war, but Waylon saved the day.