“That’s awesome,” I say, and he gets another before it’s my turn again.
We spend the next forty-five minutes playing two rounds of the matching game and a couple of rounds of the sorting game I brought. I’ve learned that Aidan is an only child, he recently learned that Santa is a lie, he sees a lot of his grandparents, even though they still live in Charlotte, and his father has been away for a very long business trip. “This is the longest one he’s ever been on,” Aidan says. “By eleven months and three days.”
I cringe a little at that. Because it’s no business trip the man’s on, and I question his mother’s choice to tell a lie that will have to be set right at some point. But it’s none of my business.
“Mom says they’re not going to be married anymore, but he’s still my father. I haven’t talked to him since January, though, and you’re supposed to talk to your father. At least that’s what Mikey says.”
“Who’s Mikey?”
“He sits next to me in school,” Aidan says, pulling his zipper up and down, up and down.
Mikey sounds like kind of a dick. Sure, he’s only six, but some people start early. Still, I doubt Ms. Duckworth would appreciate it if I said so.
So I change the subject by sharing about my own family, telling him that I have one sister and a nephew, but I refrain from telling him that my parents are dead. I’m not sure how much he understands about death, and I don’t want to open that can of worms. I also talk about my job remodeling houses. Before I know it, Susan is waving at me to get my attention.
“I think you two have had a splendid afternoon,” she says, beaming, “but Aidan’s mother is here. Would you like to meet her?”
“Yeah.” She needs to feel comfortable with the man spending time with her son, so I ask Aidan to pick up the game. I get to my feet, then turn to face her, but I stop in my tracks.
I wasn’t sure what I expected. A beaten-down woman struggling to make ends meet after her husband abandoned his family? Maybe she’s both of those things, but that’s not how she looks. She’s wearing a white blouse under a gray jacket, paired with a gray pencil skirt that clings to the curves of her hips and stops several inches above her knees. Her three-inch black pumps make her about six inches shorter than me. The only concession to disorder is her auburn hair—chin length but wavy.
Mary O’Shea is sexy as hell in her power suit, but what draws me in most is the vulnerability in her bright hazel eyes. I of all people know that a tough exterior doesn’t mean she’s okay on the inside. This woman is worried about her son, and God help me, I want to make everything okay for her.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I mentally shake my head. Get your shit together, man.
Extending my hand, I twist my mouth into a friendly smile, and say, “Hi. Jace Hagan. Nice to meet you.”
Chapter Three
Mary
I was so nervous at work that I started tapping my keyboard without realizing it. Worse, it was to the tune of “Jingle Bells.” My boss, Hilde, actually came over—not to tell me to stop, mind you, but to compliment the rhythm.
What if Aidan is anxious?
What if this man is some kind of weirdo or pervert?
What if Aidan is kidnapped from the library, and I never see him again?
What if this is another mistake, and Aidan gives me the cold shoulder for a month?
Because he’s already giving it to me—the cold shoulder, that is. He doesn’t get mad the way other kids do. He’d probably say he isn’t mad. He’d probably even believe it. But I know differently. Everything I do right now is wrong, and it’s because his Santa dreams have been crushed.
We still haven’t decorated the horrible tree. It stands in the corner of our living room, its most naked bits turned to the wall, like someone changing into a bathing suit. Maisie and Molly haven’t seen it yet, thank God—my sisters are worried enough about me as it is—but a reckoning might be in store for me anyway. Molly said she has something urgent to talk about, so I’m going to drop Aidan at Maisie’s for dinner so my little sister and I can chat.
I’m hoping Molly’s just seeking my lawyerly advice about her book contract. Her first novel, Hearts in Flight, just sold to a small, independent press. But that voice in my head, the one that never turns off and has been particularly loud lately, suggests she’s going to confront me about being a hot mess. The tables have turned—usually I’m the one worrying about Molly and encouraging her to (a) get a better job or (b) find a boyfriend who lasts more than a week, but it’s abundantly clear she doesn’t need my advice anymore. She’s happy in a way she’s never been before, and I’m happy for her. Actually, it’s a weight off my shoulders because I always blamed myself for the way she floundered after our parents died. My mother had always impressed upon me the importance of security, something she’d felt was lacking in her relationship with our father, and I’d tried to do my big-sister duty and steer Maisie and Molly away from situations that offered none. In retrospect, I realize that I had it wrong. They’ve both built lives that make them happy and fulfilled, and me? I don’t really know what happiness looks like anymore. I only find it with Aidan and my sisters. Work is comforting, the rhythms of it predictable and calming, but I wouldn’t say I’m happy there. Content, sure. Happy? No.
Because here’s the thing. Strip away all that security, all the manners I’ve cultivated to hide my nerves and awkwardness, all the trappings of my life…
I don’t know who I am.
Maybe it was like this all along, and I just didn’t realize it, but I’m the O’Shea sister who’s most lost.
How am I supposed to help Aidan when I can’t even help myself?
But as soon as I see him—Jace—that persistent voice in my head shuts up.
This is my son’s “buddy”?
Jace Hagan is sexy in the way real people aren’t supposed to be.
He looks like the bad boy in a movie, with his short beard, longer golden-brown hair, and a body that is frankly intimidating. And his eyes…they’re that strange teal of the ocean under sunlight—a color that shouldn’t exist in nature. I feel a weird stirring in my body.
Weird, because I honestly can’t remember the last time it occurred to me that my body is capable of more than delivering me from place to place, task to task, and item one to one hundred on my never-ending to-do list. Even before Glenn left, it had been a long time since we’d had any—ahem—intimacy—and even longer since I’d enjoyed it. It’s uncomfortable, this feeling, and it takes me several long, awkward moments to notice that he’s holding his hand out to me. Shoot, I’ve probably left him hanging for several seconds.
I dart my hand out and take his, feeling my cheeks flush. Darn this fair O’Shea skin.
His hand is big and rough, and the feel of it sends a cascade of tingles through me, awakening all the dusty and, frankly, abandoned bits of me. There’s something untamed about Jace. Wild. And even though I don’t want that—I’ve always wanted the very opposite of that—I can’t help but feel an answering purr inside of me.