Page 551 of Summer Heat
“You’re my dad?” Cody said in a little voice.
“Yeah. Is that okay with you?”
Cody took a bite of his sandwich and looked at the lake for a long minute. Or maybe it only felt long because Lance was afraid he’d screwed everything up. At last, Cody said, “Curtis has a dad, but he doesn’t have a mother.”
“I know. You know what? Curtis’s dad is your uncle Tyler.” He smiled. “And Curtis’s grandmother is your grandmother.”
That got his attention. A blaze of joy covered the little boy’s face. “My real grandma?”
Lance chuckled. Mothers were good. Dads were okay, but grandmas were the ultimate. “Yep.”
Cody leapt up and gave Lance a huge, encompassing hug. “Oh, boy! I love my grandma!”
Lance closed his eyes, smelling peanut butter and sunshine on the soft, round little body of his son. He felt almost dizzy with love. “She loves you, too, kiddo. Let’s go ask your mom if you can go see your grandma now.”
Cody pulled back and nodded vigorously. Before Lance entirely let him go, Cody put his small hand on Lance’s cheek. “You’re my daddy?”
“Yes.”
“Can I call you Daddy?”
Lance found his throat didn’t work. He nodded.
* * *
Life changed with blinding speed for Tamara over the next few weeks. Money and time—the two most strained commodities in her life for four years—were suddenly plentiful. Besides Lance’s generous sum for back child support, between Ty and Curtis, Louise, and Lance himself, Tamara found she also never had to worry about finding a baby-sitter.
With the money, she was cautious. She invested most of it in a high-yield savings account. She bought Cody new clothes, and herself a new pair of jeans. And one Saturday morning, right after Lance came to pick up Cody, she went to Denver for the day. She brought home two things, a modest but powerful computer setup, and a spring catalog for the University of Colorado at Denver.
The boxes were still sitting in the living room when Lance brought Cody home. She was cooking supper when they came in, chattering about trucks, and Tamara gathered they’d been to the warehouse where Forrest Construction kept their heavy equipment.
“Mom!” Cody cried, running into the kitchen. “I got to ride in a tractor!”
“Good for you,” she said, and kissed him. “Are you about ready to eat?”
“I’m starving!”
“Good. Go wash your hands and get ready.”
He ran off. Tamara heard Lance in the living room, grunting over the computer, but she felt oddly frozen at the stove, her hand permanently attached to the wooden spoon in her hand.
Three weeks, and not one night had passed that Tamara didn’t stay awake long after she should have been sleeping, thinking of Lance in her bed. Her pillows smelled of his hair, and the mattress held the notes of his skin. It was probably her imagination, but it felt real enough. She couldn’t climb under the covers without remembering the searing night they’d spent together there. She thought often that it would be easier to just sleep on the couch.
Instead, she somehow slept there again and again, sinfully spinning erotic pictures of his mouth on her neck, his hands gliding over her body. Over and over again, she thought of him coming into the kitchen that morning, and planting that single kiss on her mouth.
The vivid imaginings spilled over into her waking life, making it hard to look Lance in the eye when he came to get Cody, or dropped him off. She was afraid he’d see the longing in her eyes.
Because he seemed to accept this new, platonic relationship without any trouble. He was polite and distant, in order to give her dignity, she supposed. One night, when she was coming home from work, she’d seen him in his car with a laughing brunette, very elegant and slim. Obviously out on a date.
She tried not to think about it.
Tonight he was lingering longer than usual. Generally, he simply walked Cody to the door, came in for a moment and left again. She wondered what was keeping him tonight.
The computer. Of course. Maybe he might even know how to set it up. Putting the spoon down, she hurried into the other room.
But coming onto him suddenly was not a good idea. He knelt before the boxes, one strong hand on the computer box. His coat was shed carelessly on the couch, and the sleeve of his shirt was rolled three quarters of the way up, showing that beautiful, vein-ridged forearm. His hair had gone uncut for awhile, and it spilled over his collar, thick and golden and touchable.
A wave of such violent desire struck her that Tamara couldn’t remember what had brought her into the room. She stopped in the archway, breathless with want.
