by Michele Hauf
“I could teach you how to put up a ceiling,” he suggested.
Maxwell tapped his chin, considering. “Too risky for a kid my age and of such a tender constitution.” He patted his right side. “I’m still recovering, you know.”
“I know.” Sam held back his smirk.
The kid was a character, and there was nothing at all wrong with that. He scanned the walls of the boy’s room, noting a chart of the human brain, the periodic table and a poster of a giant cicada. Not a team pennant in sight. Jeff’s room had been filled with sports pennants. Both he and Sam had enjoyed going to the Vikings games with their dad when he was alive.
“So just you and your mom, eh? You ever wish you had a father?”
“That’s a very forward question, Sam.”
“Yeah.” Sam sat back and tossed the crayon onto the stack. “Sorry, buddy. It’s just, I don’t know…every boy needs a dad.”
“Actually, that’s not true.” Maxwell leaned forward and turned the iPad around to type in something. “Statistics show that a majority of boys brought up by a single mother tend to thrive.” He turned the tablet computer to face Sam. It displayed a graph, but Sam didn’t study it too closely. This wasn’t a topic best discussed with graphs or charts; it should come from the heart.
“I mean,” Maxwell continued, “look at the president. He was raised by a single mother. And look where he is now.”
“You got me there. Your mom raised you well. I’d be proud to have a kid like you.”
“You would? Well.” The boy studied the poster, his fingers toying with the stack of crayons. “I can’t say I wouldn’t mind if Mom fell in love someday. Of course, I would also have to like the guy, but my liking him would hinge on her liking him.”
“That’s very generous of you, buddy. Sounds like you’ve given it some thought.”
“Mom and I have discussed this. She’s not desperate for a husband, nor am I desperate for a father. But she would like to fall in love, and I want that for her. Are you going to kiss my mom, Sam?”
“I, uh…” Wow. That one had come from out of left field. Sam straightened on the chair and rubbed his neck.
“Because I’d be okay with it,” Maxwell said. “In fact, I give you permission to kiss my mom.”
“Well, uh, thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. I think I should go after that coffee she offered earlier. How about we take a break?”
Maxwell checked his wristwatch. “Yep. Time for a break. Meet you out on the patio?”
“Deal.”
* * *
Maxwell fell asleep on the hammock with a dripping Popsicle stick in his hand. Rachel carefully removed the purple-stained stick and set it on the iron table before joining Sam, who sat on the bench beneath the willow tree. Her yard was small and she shared the willow with the backyard neighbors. She’d love to find a bigger lot where Maxwell could run around, but truth was, he was more into mental play than physical.
Of course, she could entirely imagine her son tossing a baseball with Sam. That thought made her blush and she looked aside so Sam wouldn’t notice. What was with all the blushing lately? Get a grip, Rachel.
“Did you and Maxwell get a lot done?” she asked.
“Yep. We started the posters, and one of the sisters at Kid Flicks emailed some guidelines for how to handle the drive. Maxwell plans to put up posters at his school and church, and I’ll take some around for grocery stores and community bulletin boards. Your son is one smart little man. Too smart for me, I think.”
And that was it, wasn’t it? Maxwell did tend to intimidate most of her dates. If it wasn’t because the man couldn’t imagine taking on a girlfriend with a nine-year-old son, it was because said nine-year-old was often smarter than the adults and wasn’t afraid to show it. She’d never admonish Maxwell for his intelligence. If a guy couldn’t handle the kid, then he wasn’t the right man for her or her son.
And really? This was not a date. So what was she thinking?
“He really needs to learn how to play,” Sam suggested. “All work and no play makes for a dull boy.”
“You think Maxwell is dull?”
“Far from it. There’s enough going on in that kid’s brain to entertain masses. What I mean is, well, I shouldn’t say anything. I’m not a parent.”
“No, you’re not.” She had raised her son just fine without unwanted advice from the peanut gallery.
“Right, though I do have some experience with kids. My younger brother, Jeff… Well, I feel like kids need to run around, toss a ball, maybe fall off a bike once in a while. Heck, Maxwell is only nine and he thought he was too old to watch a cartoon.”
“He said it was about a toaster who could talk.”
“Yeah, but did he tell you about the toaster’s awesome quest? And the blankie? Such a great actor, that blanket.”
“Still. Like you said, you’re not a parent, and I think my experience trumps yours.”
Sam’s heavy sigh tweaked Rachel’s conscience. She’d been direct with him, but it was a practiced defense. The fact that it bothered her was a revelation.
Take it down a notch, Rachel, she admonished herself. Just chill.
“You know what happened first time I hit a ball?” Sam asked.
“Something worthy of Funniest Home Videos?”
Sam chuckled. “No crotch shots, but I did take out my mother’s gnome. Sheared that ugly red hat clean off the bugger.”
Rachel laughed and Sam slid his hand into hers. When he pulled it up to rub her fingers against his cheek, she suddenly went quiet.
“You smell like a grape Popsicle,” he said. He looked down and smirked, as if he’d just thought of something funny, yet wasn’t sure if he could share.
“What is it?”
He kissed the back of her hand. “I’ll have you know your son gave me permission to kiss his mother.”
“Is that so?”
Her cunning little boy was playing matchmaker? She would have words with him later about his sneaky tendencies.
Or perhaps not. Could she rush right from being cold, her emotions walled up, into open and ready for a kiss? Everything about Sam oozed sensuality, from his liquid brown eyes to that soft smirk and his wide, strong hand clutching hers.
A kiss? Kisses never harmed anyone.
“So, Handy Sam, what are you going to do with that permission?”
“Let’s see.”
He kissed the side of her hand, where she knew he could taste the sticky grape juice, and then leaned closer. She followed his cue, her heart thudding as the warm masculine heat of him invaded her pores and his breath hushed over her lips.
The kiss was slow and tender, and it felt right, like the summer sun when she took her first step out onto the grass in the morning. Sitting beneath the breeze-tossed willow leaves, she felt she was in a dream she’d never had before, because it would have seemed silly to even imagine such a moment. But there was nothing silly about Sam Jones and his unrelenting kindness toward both her and Maxwell. Or this delightful kiss.
Behind them, they heard Maxwell whisper triumphantly, “Yes!” and the kiss was broken as their mouths opened to laughter.
But Rachel’s quickly faded. It had been irresponsible to take such a step with her son so close. And with her heart feeling tender right now, so…out of sorts. Sam Jones toyed with her carefully erected walls, and even though he’d just knocked down a few bricks, she wasn’t about to surrender. She’d been there before, and a failed romantic relationship always ended up hurting Maxwell more than her.
“That was too fast,” she whispered, glancing toward her son.
Sam seemed momentarily perplexed, then nodded. “Probably. Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”
“I did encourage it. I just…” Need to go slower. “It’s getting late. I have to start supper.” She stood up, collected the Popsicle stick and left Sam sitting beside Maxwell while she hurried into the house.
Too fast, the logical part of her brain insisted. Yet that impetuous, w
anting part of her that she tried to keep locked away began to unfurl and flutter within her heart.
Chapter Five
Over the next few days, Sam worked in the McHenry garage, tearing out Sheetrock, replacing insulation and putting up a new plywood ceiling. He didn’t see Rachel until right before the school bus pulled up. She always arrived five minutes before Maxwell stepped off the bus. And she merely waved to Sam, then disappeared inside the house with her son.
Sam had blown it with the kiss the other day, even though at the time he’d felt she’d been open to it. But she’d shut him down quickly.
“Out of my league,” he muttered, reminding himself to keep an eye on the job and not the woman’s legs.
“Sam!”
“What? Ouch!” Startled by Maxwell’s shout, Sam had inadvertently grabbed a serrated board and felt a sliver enter his finger with a sharp stab.
Maxwell stepped back at his booming shout, and Sam realized he’d freaked him. The boy retreated into the house, calling for his mother.
“Great. Now she’ll never forgive me for scaring her kid.”
Wincing at the inch-long sliver of wood sticking out of his thumb, Sam vacillated between going after the kid and trying to explain himself, or just leaving it be. He was already on unstable ground with Rachel.
“What’s going on?” She swept into the garage, while her son lingered near the door, warily peering at them. “You frightened Maxwell.”
“I didn’t mean to.” Sam stuck his hand behind his back—and forgot the boy was behind him.
“He’s bleeding!” Maxwell yelled.
“Let me see,” Rachel insisted.
Sam shook his head.
“Maxwell was worried about you. That’s why he came to get me.”
“I’m a big boy. Get slivers all the time. It’ll be fine.”
“Not if it’s bleeding. Come inside and let me get some alcohol. I won’t have you bleeding to death in my garage.”
“It’s hardly a fatal wound.”
With a defiant lift of her chin, she said, “Show me.”
With a defeated sigh, Sam brought up his hand. Maxwell peeped and scampered back into the house.
“My son isn’t keen on the sight of blood,” Rachel said, taking Sam’s wrist and tugging him toward the house.
“Really? And he wants to be a brain surgeon?”
“I’ve been informed there’s minimal blood when doing brain surgery. Let’s get you cleaned up. You’re lucky. It’s suppertime. I may have to feed you to counter any wooziness from your injury.”
Sam was about to protest that he was not at all woozy, when it hit him that she’d just invited him to stay for supper.
Way to work the injury, Jones.
* * *
Dinner went well, and Rachel couldn’t get over the glances she caught Maxwell giving Sam. She’d swear they were looks of admiration. Plenty of times she’d invited a man over for a meal, but Maxwell had never offered him more than a “hello, I’ve got homework.”
So what made Sam different? He was completely opposite Rachel’s usual type of guy. He wasn’t a businessman. He probably didn’t even own a pair of leather loafers or a snazzy tie. His hair was never styled, though she had to give Sam credit because it did looked combed tonight. His laughter was free and unguarded. And she’d counted four freckles on his nose while taking sneaky peeks at him over the crunchy garlic bread.
So unlike her usual polite and refined dates. And so unexpectedly delightful. She wondered why it had taken her so long to find someone like him.
It’s because you have all those silly requirements, remember? And you’re not even sure what exactly is needed to pass Go and collect the two hundred dollars and your heart.
Right. But maybe it was time she redefined that list. Apparently Sam had already broken down part of the wall she’d erected around her heart. Would it be so difficult to let him attempt the rest?
As she ran the sink full of water to soak the dishes, Sam joined her and grabbed a towel. “I’ll dry,” he said. “As thanks for the excellent meal.”
“Oh…” She was about to protest that she could leave the dishes until after he left, but the feel of his strong, solid form standing next to her, their arms brushing, was not something she wanted to dismiss so quickly. “All right then. Is your thumb okay?”
He waggled the bandaged digit. “Your lasagna saved the day. I might have been a goner if you hadn’t fortified me with food.”
Performing his usual after-supper duties, Maxwell cleared the table, and as she placed the last of the dishes beside her on the counter, gave her a wink. Where had the kid learned that? Ah, yes. Sam’s winks were apparently infectious.
“Sam, after you and Mom are finished, can you help me with a few more details on the DVD drive?”
“Sure, buddy.”
“Yes!” Her son raced upstairs toward his bedroom.
“You have an interesting connection with Maxwell,” Rachel said as she soaped up the plates. “He likes you.”
“I like him. It’s amazing how quickly he recovered from surgery, but as he explained, it was laparoscopic. I actually did go home and look that one up. Guy could learn a lot hanging around that kid.”
“He has to return next week for a follow-up visit, but yes, kids are very resilient.”
“Most of them.”
She sensed a sadness fall over Sam, but didn’t want to question him. Perhaps he’d known a child who hadn’t been so resilient. Best to keep first dates light.
This is not a date, Rachel. Don’t forget, he’s here on business.
Well, sort of a date. Why can’t you allow yourself to have some fun?
Because every time she started liking a guy, she’d think Great, now I’ve found a dad for Maxwell. But her heart knew it shouldn’t be about finding her son a father, it should be about finding a man she could love. Yet the argument that Maxwell could use a dad was never far behind, and that always muddled everything and made it too complicated, so she generally abandoned the whole quest. She wasn’t desperate for commitment, but she would never pass up a real relationship with the right man.
“I’m sorry about the other day,” Sam said, breaking into her thoughts.
“What happened the other day?”
“You know, when I kissed you.”
“Oh.” He was apologizing for a kiss. Swell, Rachel. Real relationship? What a crock.
“I sense you need to take things slow. Maybe you’re a little confused.”
“Confused? About a kiss? What kind of a woman do you think I am?”
“I think you’re a gorgeous, smart woman who is in a league much higher than my own, that’s what I think.”
“Really? You know how ridiculous that sounds?”
“Not from my perspective. And you have a kid.”
As if she was ever going to forget the one detail that would forever damn her dating prospects. Time to draw up the walls again. Her foray into trust wasn’t getting her where she wanted to be.
“Don’t worry about it. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
They worked side by side over the sink in stunning silence. Until Sam placed the last dried plate on the counter and abruptly stated, “All right. I just gotta know. Where does Maxwell’s father fit in? Since you’re not Mrs. McHenry?”
Well, that was direct, but she had to give him credit for daring to ask. Most men waffled around the subject for far too long.
“I’ve never been married. Had Sam when I was twenty. Maxwell’s father—well, it’s not right to call him that. He’s more the sperm donor. We dated almost a year, but we’d already split up by the time I learned I was pregnant. And when I told him, he said it wasn’t his spiritual path to be a father.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, and I was, and still am, cool with that. He was a fine man and I respect him. We just had different outlooks on life and family. Maxwell and I have done well on our own. Better, I suspect, than if I’d married the guy
just because, you know?” She was rambling. But best to have it all out there now that she’d started. “Anyway, the last I heard about him he was living in an ashram in India.”
“Wow. Must be tough sometimes, doing it all on your own and being so independent.”
“You say independent like it’s a dirty word.”
“No. I, uh… Hell. I just can’t seem to say the right thing around you.”
She let him off the hook with a chuckle. “Maxwell does get everything I can give him, but I’ve never forgotten about myself. I’ve learned to be selfish. If I don’t make time to take care of me, then who will care for Maxwell?”
“You’re a strong woman, Rachel. I like that. It’s kinda sexy.”
She ducked her head and picked up another plate to hide the blush she felt heating her cheeks. At the same time she hoped Sam did not get the vibe that she was husband hunting. She most definitely was not.
Maybe?
Sam hung up the towel and then smoothed a hand over her shoulder. His wide grip seemed to encompass so much of her that she felt…safe. “Thanks, Rachel. This has been a great day.”
It seemed as though he might lean in to kiss her, but instead he delivered another devastating wink and went in search of Maxwell.
Rachel sighed at the missed opportunity. But of course he wouldn’t kiss her again. He’d thought she was upset over the first time?
And too independent? Perhaps. But only because she had to be. Such a trait didn’t ever go well with handsome single men, though.
Hmm… Was she the one, more than her son, who was keeping men away? When she gave it some thought… Who was Sam with right now?
“It is me,” she whispered.
* * *
Why hadn’t he kissed her again? Something about the mention of Maxwell’s father, and the message that she was doing just fine on her own, had kept him from intruding on her seemingly idyllic life. And the fact that he just couldn’t seem to say the right thing around Rachel.
Or hell, maybe he was getting cold feet.
