Perfect Kiss (Mason Creek Book 9)

by Lacey Black

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, taking in the worry lines on her forehead and the way she pinches her lips together.

  “Hey, listen, I think I need to reschedule,” she replies in a hurry. “My dad fell and, it’s probably just a sprain or something, but my mom had to take him to the hospital to get it checked out. I ran and picked up Trace as soon as I was finished at the physician’s office. I called Laken, but they went shopping and won’t be back to Mason Creek for another forty-five minutes or so, so it’s probably best I come back another time. Maybe we can—”

  “Breathe, Lenora,” I whisper, wrapping my hands around her upper arms and giving them a comforting, gentle squeeze. “It’s okay. We don’t need to reschedule.”

  She takes a few deep breaths and meets my gaze. “I can come tomorrow night. I’m sure Laken will be able to help with Trace.”

  I’m already shaking my head. “No need. He’s welcome here. I do believe I mentioned that last week.”

  She seems so unsure, narrowing her eyes as if she doesn’t understand. “Yeah, but I just thought that was you being polite. The last thing either of us need is a five-year-old underfoot when I’m working.”

  “So I’ll take him out back. He can play in the backyard.”

  I can’t tell what she’s thinking, and frankly, that bothers me. I’ve consistently been able to read women, but with Leni, she’s always a mystery. A surprise I can’t wait to unravel. “He probably won’t want to leave my side. He doesn’t know you.”

  I shrug. “That’s fine too. I’m sure we can keep him busy in a place he can see you.”

  “But…”

  “No buts, Leni. I don’t mind Trace being here. I promise.”

  She stares at me for several seconds, those wheels turning in that big, beautiful brain of hers. After what feels like the longest five seconds ever, she nods. “Okay. As long as Trace is comfortable.”

  “Agreed.” She turns to get Trace from the back seat when she stops and turns my way. “You called me Leni.”

  Shrugging, I reply, “It just seemed like you needed the security of your nickname in the moment.”

  She gives me an appreciative smile, one very different than I’m used to receiving from a woman. This one lacks the I-want-to-suck-your dick eyelash batting and is replaced by open and sincere gratitude.

  I think I like this look a hell of a lot more.

  Leni opens the back door and helps her son unfasten his seat belt. He hops out and gazes up—way up—and meets my eye. “Hi, Trace. I’m Malcolm.”

  The little boy directly stares at me, while moving to hide a bit behind his mom.

  “Trace, this is Mr. Wright. I’m going to clean his house, okay? You can come inside with me, and if you’re good and quiet while I work, we’ll stop and get ice cream tomorrow from Twisted Sisters after dinner, okay?”

  The little boy’s hazel eyes widen with delight as he nods insistently. “Okay. I’ll be good.”

  “I know you will be,” she replies, ruffling the mop of dark brown hair on top of his head. “Do you want to help me carry my stuff?”

  The little boy nods and grins the biggest toothless smile. I can’t help but grin myself. I watch as they move to the trunk. Lenora takes out the plastic tote on wheels, and when she pulls the shoulder bag out, she hands it to Trace, who stumbles under the weight. I reach forward and steady the child, lifting the bag a little to help him carry his load. Together, we walk into the garage and through the mudroom door.

  “Take off your shoes, Trace,” Lenora says as she trails behind us into my house.

  The boy kicks off his Velcro Batman sneakers and walks with me into the kitchen. “I’ll take this,” I state, lifting the bag off his shoulders and setting it on the counter.

  I watch as Trace takes in my house, his curious eyes looking at my space from top to bottom. When they settle on the big bay window, he hesitantly moves in that direction, gazing out over the backyard and lake with a hint of a smile on his lips.

  “Why don’t you take a seat at the table,” she instructs, pulling a notepad and pen from her bag, placing it in front of him. “I’ll start in here.”

  While Lenora gets to work in the kitchen, I make my way to the refrigerator and grab a bottle of water. I’m not sure what kids drink, but I only have a couple of options to offer. Before I say anything, I check the expiration date on the half-gallon of milk, grateful when I see it still has a few days to go before it’s no good.

  “Hey, Trace. Would you like something to drink? I have water or milk,” I offer, holding up a bottle of water and the carton of milk.

  He glances up and turns to his mom. She gives him a smile and says, “You can pick.”

  He looks back my way, studying both for several long seconds before he points to the milk. “Please.” His voice is quiet, yet polite, in a shy way that reminds me of his mom. Suddenly, I’m determined to pull a few grins and words from the little guy.

  When I set the glass on the table, I notice he’s drawing on the notepad Lenora gave him. The sketch is very child-like but clearly depicts a fish. As he sips on his milk, Trace keeps glancing to the side, his attention on the lake out back.

  After a few minutes of him looking outside, an idea creeps in my mind. “Hey, Trace?” When he looks my way, I ask, “Would you like to go outside with me to see the lake?”

  Excitement flashes in his eyes before he turns around in the chair to where his mom is working. Lenora stops, clearly hearing my question, her eyes bouncing between Trace and me.

  “If it’s okay with you, of course,” I add rapidly.

  “Oh, I’m not sure Trace will want to go,” she replies hesitantly.

  “I do!” he claims eagerly, his whole body vibrating with an enthusiastic energy.

  “He’s only had one week of swimming lessons.” I can tell Leni’s super nervous at the thought of him going outside without her.

  I step forward until I’m standing directly in front of her. “I won’t let him out of my sight, Leni. Promise. We’ll go stand at the dock for a bit. The lake is low right now, and the water looks calm. It’s safe.”

  She swallows hard and nods, squatting in front of Trace. “You be very careful, okay? You don’t have a life jacket like when you went fishing with Papa, so you can’t get too close to the edge of the dock. Listen to Mr. Wright.”

  “Okay, Mommy, I’ll be good!” Trace assures, jumping up and running to get his shoes. “Ready!” he proclaims as soon as he slides his shoes on his feet.

  I glance down and laugh. “You’ve got them on the wrong foot, Champ.”

  Trace looks down and shrugs before plopping on his rear and switching his shoes to the right foot.

  “Holler if you need anything,” Lenora says, her hazel eyes laden with anxiety. I don’t necessarily feel she’s anxious about me watching her son as she is about leaving him with someone she doesn’t know well, nor does the boy. As a single mom living out of state, I imagine her circle was pretty small where Trace came from, especially if the father was in and out of their lives when it suited him.

  “I will, promise. We’ll be right outside.”

  With that, I slide open the back door, and Trace and I step under the warm sunshine. We slowly walk toward the water’s edge, Trace never getting more than a foot or two away from me, but I can tell he’s ready to go.

  And in a way, I am too.

  “Come on, Trace, let’s go,” I insist, taking off at a slow run.

  The five-year-old follows suit, running after me with a giggle. I slow my pace and let him catch and pass me at the last second. “I’m the beater!” he professes as we reach the dock.

  I huff out a deep breath dramatically. “You’re a fast runner. You definitely beat me.”

  He smiles up at me, one of those big toothless grins, and suddenly, my heart lunges into my throat. It’s so weird to me, this reaction. I’m rarely around kids. Have only been near one baby, and there was no way I was holding it. I’ve never felt this sense of pride and
elation by one simple smile. But seeing this look on Trace’s face just does something to me.

  It makes me crave things I’ve never wanted before.

  “Can we go out there?” he asks, pointing down the short dock.

  “We sure can, but you have to stay right with me, all right?”

  He nods solemnly and slips his hand inside my own. There’s so much trust in those hazel eyes, it steals my breath and causes my heart to dance. I guide him down the dock, which is plenty big for two people to comfortably walk side by side. In fact, I’ve never been more grateful for the wide wooden structure that came with the house than I am right now.

  We reach the end and just stare out at the water. Even though we’re standing still, Trace doesn’t remove his hand from my grasp, and I realize I’m content. Just me and this boy, watching the waves slowly roll our way.

  Not the way I thought I’d spend my Thursday night, with a young boy standing beside me as I stare out over the serene waters of Baylor Lake, but I can’t think of a better way to spend it.

  Peaceful has taken on a whole new meaning.

  Chapter 8

  Leni

  I’ve been watching them out the window for the last five minutes. They’re just standing at the end of the dock, watching the water and holding hands. I can see Trace pointing at a fish jumping, his attention quickly focused upward as Malcolm explains something to him. The sight causes a funny palpitation in my chest. One that’s both reassuring and unsettling.

  Trace’s dad has been an unstable figure in his life. Since I met Greg, he’s worked for the railroad, traveling all over the northern West Coast to build and help maintain rail systems. He would be gone for two-to-four-week stints, only to come home and go out all weekend, needing to unwind with his friends. For the last half of our relationship, he had another house about two hours closer to the rail yard where he worked.

  He said it was just easier that way.

  Only, when he stayed there, he never seemed to find the time to come back to where we were. We weren’t just second fiddle, we were third, somewhere behind his job and his friends. An inconvenience that was always waiting whenever he felt obligated to do his duty as a father.

  That’s why I had to move back home.

  I didn’t want Trace to ever feel like an inconvenience, and I knew, the older he got, the more he’d see. The worse he’d feel.

  And I was tired of waiting. Of never knowing when he was going to come home, and in some cases, what shape he’d be in when he got there. If alcohol was more important than spending time with your family, then what’s the point?

  I had a family who was dying to spend more time with Trace, to get to know him better than just a few long weekends a year over holidays or summer break. When I made the decision to move, it felt like the right thing to do. I knew in my heart bringing Trace home to Mason Creek was what he needed.

  What we both needed.

  I packed everything up, rented the biggest U-Haul van I could get with my license, and drove myself home. The only person I told I was coming was my mom, which, in turn, meant my dad. They were both waiting at the edge of the sidewalk for me when I pulled that big monstrosity into their driveway. The whole thing, start to finish, took just over two weeks. I hated not telling Laken I was coming, but I just needed to get it done. Move. Be home. The explanations of why could come later.

  I’ve been home almost six months now, and Greg hasn’t reached out to me once.

  Not. Once.

  He has to know I moved, right? I mean, even after a few months, he’d at least pop in to see his son before darting off to some other part of the state again. Yet, I haven’t heard one peep from him.

  Maybe that’s my fault. I suppose I should have reached out to him when I made the decision to relocate, but why? So I could tell his voicemail when he didn’t answer? And why do I always have to carry this one-sided relationship? Haven’t I earned a little more than a few random text messages and the occasional romp in the sheets when he’s home?

  The answer is yes.

  That’s why I didn’t tell him.

  I expected him to care enough to call. To care enough about seeing Trace to find out why we weren’t in the small two-bedroom house anymore. I’d lived there since I was twenty-two and freshly out of college. God, he lived there with me for years, for crying out loud. Until he got his own place, essentially cutting us out of his life.

  I tried to keep in touch. Even after we broke up—multiple times. I always texted him photos of Trace or funny stories about things he’d done. Every once in a while, he’d show up on my doorstep, declare he was going to be the dad and boyfriend we deserved. And then Monday morning would roll around, and he’d be gone again. Sometimes he’d keep in touch throughout the week, and other times, I could have been dying and I wouldn’t have gotten a damn reply to save my life.

  After a while, you just get tired of trying.

  Now, as I glance out at my son and the man holding his hand, I’m struck with a sense of longing. Even though I’m not in any hurry to fill that father-figure void in Trace’s life, the aching for it when I see them together is real. I try not to think too much into the picture they create, but it’s hard. It’s too…nice. Like a magazine cover or photo you’d print and hang over the fireplace.

  But that’s not in the cards.

  At least not now.

  I’m not here to find a father for my son. I’m here to be closer to my family and provide a stable home for him to grow up in. A lot of moms are both mother and father, and I’ll do it too. Plus, Trace has my dad, who is one of the best father figures I know. Even though he was tough on Laken and me, he did it because he loved us, teaching us so many valuable lessons in life without us even realizing it.

  Now, as an adult, it’s how he and my mom raised us that I use as a model to raise my own son.

  I force myself to look away, even though the mother inside of me is screaming to watch Trace. I still have a job to do, and I’m not getting much of it done by gazing out the window every two seconds.

  I quickly finish the kitchen and dining room before moving to the living room and foyer. After I dust and vacuum, I straighten up a few books he has lying on the coffee table. They’re World War II and Korean War biographies, which surprises me a little. They’re not exactly the light reading I’d expect an attorney and small-town mayor to enjoy.

  Catching movement out of the corner of my eye, I glance out the large bay window in the kitchen to find Trace and Malcolm running to the edge of the property. I move with them, making sure to keep an eye on where they’re headed. Malcolm unlocks the outbuilding and pulls open the door. A few seconds later, he emerges with two fishing poles and a tackle box, and Trace throws his hands in the air in victory.

  They chat away, approaching the sliding back door. My eyes meet Malcolm’s steady, reassuring gaze, and my heart can’t help but skip a beat. “Hey,” he says, sliding open the door. “Do you mind if we wet a line? We’re going to stay on the bank though, not fish from the dock, since Champ doesn’t have a life jacket.”

  Champ.

  He calls my son Champ.

  Talk about butterflies fluttering in my chest.

  “No, I think that’s fine. As long as you keep an eye on him,” I remind, even though I don’t need to.

  “I got him, Lenora.” Malcolm winks at me before stepping inside to grab something from the freezer. It’s a bag of shrimp. “All right, Champ, this’ll have to do for tonight. Maybe next time, I’ll have something better to use,” he adds, heading back outside with their bait.

  “Yay! Big fat worms! Papa says those catch the big fat fish!”

  “They do! And I’ll have a life jacket for you next time so we can fish from the dock. I’ll teach you to cast real far,” he says as they head back out to the water. Trace turns around, smiling so widely I can see all of his missing teeth, and waves.

  My heart.

  By the time nine rolls around, I’m exhausted and ready
to go home. Thursdays are a long day for me, since I work in the mornings at the laundromat selling my cleaning supplies from nine to eleven. A twelve-hour day really does a toll on this single mom.

  When all of my supplies are packed up, I head for the back door to find my son. Since the sun has set, I’d like to think they’re finished with their fishing excursion, but maybe not. It’s way past Trace’s bedtime, so I’m hoping getting him gathered up and in the car isn’t a big production.

  Opening the door, I’m pleasantly surprised to find them sitting on the back patio. They’re each sitting in a chair, Trace’s wide eyes glued to the man beside him as he listens to the story Malcolm’s sharing. “So there we were, reeling in this huge bluefin tuna, and it took about two hours to get it in by hand, me and my buddy switching off every twenty minutes. I was exhausted, but there was no way we were letting that fish get away.”

  “How much did it weigh?” my son asks, leaning forward to not miss a detail.

  “Five hundred pounds.”

  “Wow! That’s huge!” Trace replies, his mouth dropping open.

  “I’ve got a picture of us with the fish in my office. Next time you come back, I’ll show you before we go fishing.” Malcolm must sense my presence and glances over his shoulder and meets my gaze. “Hey.”

  “All done,” I state unnecessarily.

  He nods and stands. Trace follows suit.

  “Mommy, guess what? We went fishing with shrimps and we caughted one. It was a catfish, like I caughted with Papa. And next week, Malc says I can come back and fish again. He’ll show me the biggest fish he caughted.”

  I smile. “Hey, why don’t you go inside and wait for me by my totes, okay?”

  “Okay,” he hollers right before running around me and into the house.

  Malcolm stands directly in front of me, towering over me like a tree. I’ve always felt small, the shortest of my friends growing up. Heck, even my younger sister, Laken, is taller than me. But standing in front of Malcolm, I feel tiny. He’s nearly a foot taller than my five-foot three-inch frame. “Sorry if I overstepped, but I’ve enjoyed hanging out with him and fishing,” he says nervously, shoving his hands in his pockets.