Page 22 of Slow Burn (Driven 5)
“Hi, Mom.” I roll my eyes, one hand holding my towel up at my side, and my smile growing wider as I watch her set the bags in her hand on the counter before meandering around the family room. Her seemingly aimless stroll to the couch is actually a fishing expedition to see if there is an errant Cosmopolitan magazine on the table or a pair of pink flip-flops randomly left about—a surefire sign in her eyes that I’m settling down, ready to marry and give her grandbabies.
Ha. That’s about as likely as me giving up racing.
“You can tell your lady friend who was in the shower with you to come on out now,” she says loudly as she walks past the hallway to my bedroom, her hand down at her side, petting an exuberant Rex all the while. “I won’t judge, I promise.”
“Mom,” I laugh with a shake of my head and exasperation in my voice, “there is no one in my bedroom.”
“What about your shower? You were in the shower, right?” The expectancy in her voice makes me sad I’ve disappointed her because at heart who wants to let his parents down, but seriously, marriage and a baby? At this juncture in my life, it’s something I most definitely want, but it’s a blip on my radar for the near future.
I run a hand through my still soaked hair. The woman is relentless in her pursuit for a grandchild. Early retirement from her teaching job has been good to her but has also left her bored and pining for someone to coddle and rock and sing the ABCs with.
She walks past me and now that I know my towel is secure, I grab her and wrap my arms around her. “Hi, Momma. Good to see you.”
She slinks her arms around me and pulls me in close. “Hi, baby. You’re getting me all wet!” She pushes me away as quickly as she pulls me near. To her it’s been hard enough to let us go, so she tries to prevent the emotions that are clogging her voice from spilling over as if I don’t see it each and every time.
“Well, that’s what happens when you waltz on in when I’m in the shower, now, isn’t it?” I quirk an eyebrow up at her, a smart-ass smirk on my face.
“Oh shush!” She shoos me away but doesn’t move as love fills her eyes.
God, I love this woman. Class, grace, and comfort all rolled into one. I study her as she does me and notice the lines a little deeper around her mouth, her cheeks a little fuller, and her eyes sparkling with happiness. She may be a constant proverbial thorn in my side, but I’d drop anything on a dime for her if she needed me.
I readjust my grip on my towel, and she swats at my arm. “Relax. It’s not like I haven’t seen your goods before. I did wipe that rear end of yours, you know.”
“Yeah, like thirty years ago,” I correct her as she turns her back on me and gives one more glance around to make sure I’m not lying to her about having company.
Her appraisal gives me a second to slide a glance at the clock, knowing this little visit is going to make me even later for work than my run already did. I mentally scan my calendar and figure I can take my scheduled conference call with Firestone on the drive in.
“So tell me,” she says as she walks over to the counter and pulls out plastic containers of sugar and chocolate chip cookies, various other packages of food, and then last a tin-foil-covered dish, which has my stomach growling because it looks like my favorite of hers, lasagna. “Why is my handsome son not shacking up with some hot, little thing?”
“Ha. I’m the handsome son. Then where does that leave Walker?” I’ll take any chance I can to throw a dig at him, even when he’s not around. Brotherly love and all.
“Now, Becks, don’t be mean to Walk. He’s just as handsome as you, just in a different way,” she scolds as she places the container into the refrigerator.
“Is that lasagna?” My mind shifts to what’s more important, food. I’ll put up with the ration of shit she gives me any day if she’s going to fill my fridge and bring me home-cooked goodness.
I’m all for being self-sufficient, but cooking is for the birds. Plus I suck at it.
“Yes, it is,” she answers, not really hearing my question before she continues. “Walker says you came up to the ranch all hot and bothered by someone. Why aren’t you busy with her this morning?”
Fuckin’ Walker and his big fat mouth. I should have known better.
“Hmm?” she says when I don’t answer. And the way she says it, like she has absolutely no interest, and as always, I play along and act like I don’t notice her blatant intrusion into my privacy.
“Mom, you know Walker. He’s such a chi—” I cut myself off before I can say the word chick, knowing I’ll get scolded for it.
“Beckett,” she scolds, “do not use that word around me. You should know better by now. That’s a word men in bars use, and frankly, yes, you’re a man, but one, you are not in a bar, and two, you are educated and should know women are not meek little birds that chirp.” I roll my eyes, her back facing me, as I hear the reprimand for what feels like the hundredth time in my life. “Quit rolling your eyes. Now, tell me all about her. Does she by chance have a pair of pink flip-flops?”
“Jesus, Mother! You and your pink flip-flops!” I bark.
“Don’t ever doubt me. I told you I had a dream, and your wife was wearing a pink pair of them….”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“And you’re handsome. Now, quit trying to distract me, and tell me all about her!”
I stop myself from sighing out loud before thoughts of Haddie cloud my head, and my frustration with whatever it is we have comes tumbling out of my mouth.
“That good, huh?” she says in response to my exhale and continued silence, the smile on her face so wide, I swear her cheeks are going to crack.
