Nailed

by Jasinda Wilder

“Yes, I do, and I like it.”

  “Well, that’s good, because it’s kind of in my DNA.” He tucks more flyaway hair behind my ear. “Just relax. Rest, okay? I’m here.”

  I nod, and suddenly I’m overcome with fatigue.

  Then, suddenly, a thought occurs to me. “Nate…if you’re here when he wakes up, he may be confused.”

  “I’ve got it covered, babe. Sleep. I’ve got you. No more worries, okay?”

  I nod. “He likes you, you know.”

  “Nate?”

  “Uh-huh,” I murmur sleepily. “He wants to play paintball with you.”

  “That sounds like fun.”

  “Really?” I peer up at him with one eye open.

  He rumbles a laugh. “Fuck yeah! I haven’t gone paintballing in forever.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to, Laurel.” He huffs another laugh. “In fact, I’m thinking…what about a Dad Bod Contracting paintball party extravaganza. We all take the day off, James brings his girls, and we have a big ol’ blow out. Followed by a pool party and a barbecue at my place.”

  I open both eyes and gaze up at him. “That’s a lot to unpack.”

  He arches an eyebrow. “What do you mean, a lot to unpack?”

  “First, I tell you Nate wants to play paintball with you, and you immediately think, let’s go play with everyone? Also, you have a pool?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah, I have a pool. It was a summer project for the guys and me. And as far as paintball goes? Paintball is a ton of fun, and I know all the others will be down with the idea. We’re all due for a good time, and I know from experience that paintball is best experienced with a bunch of people. We’ll rent out a place just for us. It’ll be great.”

  My voice catches. “Oh.”

  I sense his puzzlement even as I hear it in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing. I just…” I exhale, toss my hair, and glance up at him. “You’re just amazing, that’s all. Finding someone who doesn’t just tolerate my son—”

  He cuts me off. “Tolerate? What kind of bullshit is that? He’s a cool kid—who in their right mind tolerates a cool-ass kid like Nate?”

  “His own father?” I blurt, and then immediately regret it. “That’s not true, and not fair of me to say. Paul loves his son. He just…he’s not the type to have fun with him. Nate was telling me the other day that Paul took Nate to play laser tag, but didn’t actually go in and play with him.”

  Ryder growls. “That’s horseshit.” He hesitates. “Look, it ain’t my place to get into any of that, but your boy deserves to have fun. He’s a kid. I won’t say anything about anyone, ’cause like I said, it’s not my place.” He touches my chin. “What time does he get out of school?”

  I blink. “I—um. What? Why?”

  “What time?”

  “Three forty-five. But, Ryder—”

  “You trust me with him?”

  I suck in a sharp breath—there’s the ten-million-dollar question right there. “I…Ryder, I…”

  “I want to take him to play laser tag, but if you’re not comfortable with it, just say so.”

  “What about work?” I ask. “Don’t you have to work?”

  “I can take off a couple hours early. I’ll just go in early tomorrow and stay late. It’ll be fine, I promise.”

  I close my eyes and consult my feelings—and not just the ones that are deliriously happy to be back in Ryder’s embrace. Do I trust my son with Ryder McCann?

  It doesn’t require much by way of consultation.

  “Yes, Ryder. I trust you.” He starts to talk, but I touch his lips with my fingers to quiet him. “I’m not sure you understand what a huge deal this is for me, though. It’s brutally hard for me to leave him with Paul, and I’ve never left him alone with anyone else, ever.”

  “Laurel, I wasn’t trying to—”

  “But you’re different. Nate already said he likes you. He wants to hang out with you because you’re cool—and not just for your car, according to him. There are two kinds of people in the world for Nate: Slimy poopheads, and everyone else.”

  “So I made the cut, huh?”

  I nod. “You did. But making Nate’s cut is one thing. For me to feel comfortable letting you go anywhere with my son?”

  He kisses my forehead. “It’s a big deal.”

  I nod. “The biggest.”

  “I just want him, and you, to know I like him for him. I like kids, and as you may be aware, I’m not afraid to be goofy and have fun.” He meets my eyes. “But Laurel, this is your choice. I’m not going to push anything. I just want to have fun with Nate.”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready for it to be today, though,” I say hesitantly. “How about Next week? Monday?”

  He nods. “That makes sense.”

  “I just need a bit more time. And I need to talk to Nate about you—about us, a bit more first, too.”

  He smiles. “Totally understandable. This Monday it is.”

  “Be at the elementary school at quarter to four.”

  “Are you sure?” He glances at me quizzically. “It was just an idea. It can wait if you need more time.”

  I nod, closing my eyes again. “I’m sure,” I murmur wordlessly as I wiggle to get comfortable. “I’ll probably have a minor anxiety attack when it’s time to actually let him go with you, but I’ll work through it.”

  “Laurel—”

  I touch his lips. “Shushy-time.”

  He rumbles a laugh. “Yes, dear.”

  “Mmmm,” I hum, too sleepy to make sense any more. “Good boy.”

  I feel him laugh again, but then I’m tumbling down into a deep, deep sleep.

  Chapter 10

  I wake up alone in my bed and it’s early. My alarm clock is buzzing—the only reason I woke up at all. I already miss Ryder’s presence, his warmth, his soothing strength, and I’ve only been awake fifteen seconds. But…

  I smell coffee.

  And…pancakes, and…bacon?

  I shuffle out of bed, and to my door, but then pause before leaving my room, realizing I’m still in my robe, T-shirt, and underwear. I head out to the kitchen where I find Nate sitting at the kitchen table, shirtless and wearing pajama pants, a mind-bogglingly enormous stack of pancakes in front of him, absolutely drowned in butter and my sugar-free xylitol syrup.

  Ryder is fully dressed, a beanie covering his messy red hair; he’s at the stove, frying bacon with tongs in one hand, and flipping pancakes on my griddle with the other hand. His phone is on the counter beside the stove, playing country music.

  Nate sees me. “MOM! Look who came over extra special early to make me pancakes?”

  “Wow,” I mumble, not quite awake enough to handle Nate’s energy level. “It’s really early.”

  Ryder turns and winks at me. “I was awake early, and figured you guys would enjoy some pancakes and bacon.” He pulls a mug from the cabinet and pours a cup of coffee, which he places on the table near Nate. “And coffee, of course. I hope you don’t mind, but I brought my own coffee. I’m kind of a coffee snob.”

  I shuffle to the table and sit down, taking a tentative sip. “Wow. This is…incredible.”

  He nods. “Sure is. Single origin organic beans from a family-owned farm in Columbia.”

  I snort. “Let me guess—you know a guy? Or is this your uncle, too?”

  He chuckles. “Nah, I get it from a subscription service. They send me a new batch of single origin, freshly roasted beans every two weeks.”

  “You take your coffee very seriously.”

  “The only things I take more seriously are my work, my cars…” He grins at me. “And pancakes and bacon.”

  “These pancakes are amazing,” Nate says, around a mouthful of food.

  “Nate, don’t talk with your mouth full.”

  He rolls his eyes, but chews and swallows. “Where’d you learn to make pancakes like this, Ryder?”

  “I taught myself. I eat breakfast for
dinner a lot, so I perfected the art of making pancakes a long time ago.”

  “You can do that? Just…have breakfast for dinner like…all the time?”

  Ryder laughs. “That’s one of the perks of adulthood, kiddo.”

  I see Nate’s wheels turning, and narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t get any ideas, bud. We won’t be having pancakes and waffles for dinner every night.”

  “Darn. You’re always crushing my dreams, Mom.”

  “That’s me—Evil Mom, the Destroyer of Dreams,” I say, deadpan.

  “Yup. Just like when I had the idea to crumble up my cupcake in my ice cream and you said no.”

  Ryder turns, an expression of admiration on his face. “DUDE. That’s genius.”

  Nate turns to me, triumphant. “See? Ryder thinks it’s a good idea.”

  “It was a chocolate cupcake and Superman ice cream.”

  Ryder fakes a gag. “You didn’t mention that part—that’d have been nasty.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “You’re not supposed to encourage his antics, you know.”

  Ryder just grins, turning back to the griddle; he flips the pancakes deftly from the griddle onto a plate, tongs the bacon onto another plate lined with paper towel, and brings both plates to the table. He sits down at the table, with Nate on one side and me on the other. My stomach flips and twists at the intimate moment—the three of us, having breakfast together.

  Like a fam—

  No.

  Nope.

  No.

  A few good dates and some earth-shattering sex are not grounds to let my heart start tossing that word around. Shut it down, Laurel. One day at a time—take it slow.

  Ryder slides three thick, fluffy, perfectly golden brown pancakes on the plate in front of me along with a few pieces of bacon, and then nudges the butter and syrup toward me. I drench my pancakes in butter and syrup and dig in, moaning in delight.

  “These really are incredible,” I say.

  Ryder grins. “My own special recipe. Mostly oat flour mixed with a little almond flour—none of that bleached bull…um, crap. Good, and good for you.”

  I wash down a bite with a mouthful of hot, black coffee and nibble on some bacon.

  I could really get used to this.

  “Me too,” Nate says.

  I blush, realizing I said that out loud.

  Ryder just chuckles. “Me three. I’ve been eating alone for a long time, and it’s kinda nice having company.” He stabs a forkful of pancake. “Plus, it’s nice having people appreciate my pancake recipe. I’ve been tweaking it for years.”

  “I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” I mumble.

  “But you did,” Ryder says.

  “Well, thank you, Ryder. Nate and I are super grateful for bacon and pancakes and amazing coffee.”

  Nate makes a face. “I don’t like coffee,” he says. “Mom let me try it one time, and it tasted like poopy dirt mixed with barf.”

  Ryder cackles. “You’ve really got a way with words, you know that?”

  I roll my eyes. “Not everything has to be potty talk, Nate.”

  “You won’t let me swear, so how else am I supposed to express myself?” he argues. “You’re always telling me to be myself, and maybe that’s just how I express myself.”

  “You can’t find a way to express yourself that isn’t nasty?”

  “No, probably not. I’m nine—it’s what we do.”

  Ryder is desperately trying to suppress laughter, and I point at him with my fork. “You are not helping.”

  He blows out a breath, calming himself. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—he’s just funny.”

  Nate grins, and it’s clear he’s over the moon from Ryder’s praise. Now, having eaten all his food, he gets up from the table.

  “Hey, now, mister. Clear your plate.” I arch an eyebrow at him. “Having a guest over doesn’t change the rules.”

  He makes a dramatic show of clearing his place, rinsing the plate and putting it in the dishwasher, along with his fork and cup.

  “Good, thank you.” I gesture toward his room with my fork. “Now, brush your teeth and get ready for school, please.”

  When Nate is in the bathroom with the water running, I glance at Ryder. “You still want your plan for next week to be a surprise?”

  He nods. “I think it’ll make it more fun.”

  I shrug. “Like I said last night, I’ll probably have a minor anxiety attack when it comes time to let you actually drive away with him, but I’ll get through it.”

  “I don’t want you to have an anxiety attack, Laurel.”

  “No way around it. It’s part of being a mom—letting your kid out of your sight at all is grounds for a minor anxiety attack. Letting him leave with someone else—even someone you trust—is the most difficult thing in the world. I sobbed like a baby his first day of school. I still get teary-eyed, honestly, and he’s in third grade.”

  “I’m not taking it lightly, Laurel. I know what it means to you.”

  I laugh. “No, I don’t think you do. You can’t—you’re not a parent.” I sigh, and smile at him. “But I appreciate that you’re making the effort for me.”

  He shakes his head. “You don’t get it, do you? I’m not making an effort for you, or for him. I mean, I am, partly, but mostly, I’m doing this for myself.”

  I tilt my head to one side, leaning back from my plate—I’ve just about eaten myself into a coma. “How so?”

  He grins. “Well, for one, it’s an excuse to play laser tag. Being a kid in a grown man’s body, I’m just excited. Two, I want to show you that I’m serious about this—you, and Nate. I say I’m doing it for myself, because if you understand that I’m for real…” he trails off, shrugging.

  I smirk at him, checking to make sure Nate isn’t secretly listening. “Then you get more sex?” I say, in a voice just above a whisper.

  “Well, yeah. But also it means you’re more invested in me, and that’s a win on its own.”

  I hesitate over the truth. “Ryder…I’m not sure I can get any more invested, at this point.” I gesture at the table. “This? This was a dangerous move, my friend.”

  He frowns, puzzled. “How do you mean?”

  “I’ve been trying to convince myself to take this slowly, to not get in over my head too fast. And then you make breakfast for my son and I?” I shrug. “You’re making it hard to stay objective.”

  He laughs. “What if I don’t want you to be objective?”

  “Then you’re doing a good job.” I meet his eyes. “Because I’m not. I’m very much in over my head,” I whisper.

  Ryder leans across the table and takes my hand. “Laurel…I’m not objective either. I’m in over my head as much as you are.” He pauses. “This whole thing has shifted so fucking fast, you know? Like, before you showed up at Billy Bar, I was like, no way, I can’t do anything serious with her. And now…? All of a sudden we’re having weekends away together and I’m taking your kid out to play laser tag next week. It’s a lot really fast, and I have no idea what I’m doing. I just know I really like you, and that I’m definitely falling for you.”

  I blink hard. “Ryder…”

  “Okay! I’m ready!” Nate says, bounding out of his room. He’s wearing blue camouflage pants with a red-and-black checked shirt.

  I laugh. “Whoa, there. You may need a little fashion help, buddy.”

  “Gotcha covered,” Ryder says, rising. He puts his hand on Nate’s shoulder, guiding him back into his room. “Okay, there’s basically one really important fashion rule. Follow this one rule, and you’ll be fine: Never mix your patterns.”

  “What’s that mean?” Nate asks.

  “It means if you’re wearing camo pants, wear a plain shirt, like a solid color. If you’re wearing a checkered or flannel shirt, wear jeans or khakis or something.”

  “Oh.” I hear the confusion in Nate’s voice. “I thought this looked cool.”

  “You know, I think it looks cool, too. But here’s anothe
r little secret for you: we don’t dress to look cool for ourselves, we dress to look cool for the people we like.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you don’t have to look at yourself all the time, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Your mom does, and your friends do, and your teacher does. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “So you pick clothes to look cool for them.”

  “But Mom always says that those who matter don’t mind, and those who mind don’t matter. Or something like that.”

  “You got it right. And that’s what I’m saying. You and I may think camo and plaid go together just fine, but your mom doesn’t, and I guarantee you the cool girls at school won’t either.”

  “I’m still confused.”

  I’m laughing to myself, listening to this. Oh Ryder. So sweet.

  “All right, put it this way—if you’re anything like me, you’re never gonna quite get the hang of fashion. So, the simplest and easiest thing to do is just let your mom tell you what looks cool and what doesn’t.”

  There you go—Momma knows best.

  “But Mom always wants me to dress like a dork.”

  Ryder chokes on a laugh. “Yeah, that’s tricky. But here’s the thing to remember—it’s never been cooler to be a nerd, my man. Think about all the superhero comic book movies that are out, right? Nerds are in!”

  “Yeah, sure, but that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna get made fun of for wearing collared shirts and button-downs all the time.”

  I wince, because I didn’t realize he was getting made fun of—I make a mental note to let him pick some of his own clothes…with guidance.

  “That’s when you remember what your mom told you—if they’re making fun of you, then their opinion doesn’t matter. Screw ’em.” I hear him gulp. “I—I mean. Um. Crap. I just mean…shoot. Don’t tell your mom I said that.”

  Nate laughs. “Dude, you know she can hear us, right? She’s got mom hearing—you say anything bad, she’ll know. I said a bad word at school once, and I swear there were no teachers or recess monitors around, and she still knew.”

  I laugh out loud at that—he said the bad word with his teacher standing literally right behind him, and I got an email about it later that day.