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  “Is he a slimy poophead like Derek?”

  I groan a laugh. “No, he’s not. And I didn’t realize Derek was a slimy poophead until much too late.” I grin at Nate in the mirror. “Next time you think a guy is a slimy poophead, you tell me right away, okay? That’s your job—to tell me when a guy is no good if I don’t realize it soon enough.”

  “Am I allowed to think Dad is a slimy poophead?”

  I cough. “He’s your Dad, and he loves you. He just…he’s always had trouble showing that he loves people.”

  “Is that why you guys divorced?”

  I nod. “There were a lot of reasons, but yeah, that’s a big part of it.” I give him a stern look. “But he’s still your father, and he loves you, and you’ll be respectful to him, okay?”

  Nate nods. “He’s just dumb and doesn’t know how to have fun with a kid. I mean, it’s laser tag! How do you not have fun with that? Seriously. He’s lame.” He perks up. “Would Ryder play laser tag with me, you think? Dad wouldn’t even talk to me if he didn’t have to.”

  I think back, and realize that Nate is right, and that Derek was fairly adept at hiding the fact that he didn’t like kids, and that he was only dating me for my looks.

  Shit.

  I’m stupid.

  “Well? Would he?” Nate asks.

  I blink, realizing I never answered. “You know, I have a feeling he probably would.”

  “Will I meet him?”

  I pull into Paul’s driveway and put the car into park. “Maybe. I’m still deciding on Ryder. I want to make sure he isn’t a slimy poophead, before I bring him around you.”

  Nate frowns. “Then how am I supposed to see if he is one before you?”

  I laugh. “Good point! After this date, if it goes well, I’ll let you plan a day for us to go do fun stuff, and if Ryder is willing to hang out with you, and you like him, that’ll be a pretty good test for both of us, huh?”

  “Paintball!” Nate shouts.

  I arch an eyebrow. “We’ll have to see about that one.” I see Paul exit his building, and I unbuckle so I can give Nate a hug. I leave the car and meet Nate at the hood, kneeling down to give him a big hug. “Have fun, okay?”

  He rolls his eyes at me. “I will,” he drawls in an annoyed monotone. “You’re gonna get me at four on Sunday, right?”

  “Four? I usually pick you up at five thirty.”

  “Yeah, but I have basketball practice at five, and we have a game against a really good team next week so we’ll need the practice.”

  I glance at Paul, who is watching us with crossed arms. “Will that work okay, Paul?”

  Paul shrugs. “I guess.”

  A touch under six feet tall, Paul has dark hair with streaks of silver at the temples, attractive features, brown eyes that can shift from rage to joy in an instant. He used to be in decent shape, but hasn’t kept up with it in recent years, so there’s a bit more of a bulge around his waistline, and some sagging around the jaw that wasn’t there before. He’s a handsome man, but all I can see when I look at him is the mercurial moods, the narcissism, and the unpredictability.

  “You’re sure?” I ask.

  Paul rolls his eyes. “I said so, didn’t I?”

  “You said you guess. Which isn’t the same thing. I just don’t want any mix-ups on Sunday.”

  “Pick him up at four. It’s fine.” His eyes rake over me. “Plans for the weekend?”

  I resist the urge to tug my top up to hide my cleavage from him. “Um…yeah.”

  Nate looks up at me, and seems like he’s about to say something, so I kneel down and give him another hug. “Love you, bud. Be good.”

  Nate hugs me back. “Love you. You be good,” he says, winking obviously and mischievously.

  And then he scampers off, shouting for Paul’s enormous bullmastiff, Arnie. The first thing Paul did when we separated was to get the biggest dog he could find. Nate adores Arnie, and he’s always begging me for a dog of our own. So far, I’ve resisted. But after Nate’s latest revelations, Mom Guilt has me reconsidering.

  I give Paul a short, small smile, and then head for my car.

  “You look really good, by the way, Laurel,” Paul says.

  I blink at him. “Um. Thanks.”

  “I made pasta—there’s plenty extra. You could stay if you wanted.”

  I sigh, desperately searching for a way out of this with minimal awkwardness. “Thanks, Paul, I…” I go for partial honesty. “I can’t. I have plans.”

  “A date?”

  I suppress a groan. “Paul, come on. I just…I have to go, okay?”

  He gives me a look that’s somewhere between a smirk and a snarl. “You know, I think you look better now than you did when we were together.”

  “I’m not sure how to respond to that, Paul.” I open my car door. “I have to go. I’ll see you Sunday at four, okay?”

  He waves, and it’s a quintessential Paul gesture—not quite a dismissal, but not quite a regular goodbye either. Passive aggressive, hard to read, and irritatingly vague. If Paul has a middle ground between manic and depressive, this is it.

  I’m a tangled mess of annoyance, frustration, and confusion as I head back home. Because time was tight after work today I had showered, changed, gotten dressed, and put on makeup before picking Nate up from basketball and taking him to Paul’s. Now I have to hustle home to pack for the weekend—and I only have five minutes before Ryder will arrive.

  My overnight bag is on my bed, open, and I have a few potential outfits laid out. A skirt and a top, some pajamas—or rather, loungewear, since I don’t honestly anticipate wearing much by way of pajamas—some boots, some heels, another fancy dress, several sets of sexy lingerie, a pair of jeans, and a sweater. But now that I’m looking at my selections, I’m rethinking them. The skirt is a little short, and the top is a little deeply cut, and the loungewear is a pair of yoga pants that are essentially skin tight with a with a long sleeve T-shirt, not sexy but somehow still risqué. The dress is one of my favorite items to wear so I’m happy with that one, and the lingerie I know I look good in, but they’re sets I bought for myself on a sudden urge to splurge and make myself feel sexy, and I’ve never worn them in front of anyone, just under my work clothes as a kind of secret thrill. The jeans and sweater are fine, too.

  Basically, it’s the sexy stuff I’m not sure about.

  My doorbell rings, and I panic.

  “SHIT!”

  I stare down at my pile of clothing, waffling on whether to ask Ryder to wait a few more minutes, but then I realize if I do that, I’ll get stuck in a cycle of trying to decide what to bring and what not to bring, and so I end up stuffing the pile of clothing in my little hard-sided overnight bag, along with my toiletries bag and to-go makeup case. I zip it up, lug it to the front door, and then stop, sucking in a deep breath—hold it—and let it out slowly.

  And then I open the door.

  Ryder is leaning against the doorframe, looking devastatingly sexy. Black jeans with polished but worn black leather boots with red laces, a white button-down shirt, and a gray corduroy blazer with leather patches on the elbows. His hair is brushed casually off to the side, but it’s too thick and unruly to ever truly behave, and it looks like he’s been running his hands through it. His beard is neatly trimmed and groomed and brushed, and his eyes are hidden behind a pair of silver, mirrored aviation sunglasses.

  “God, you look hot,” I blurt.

  His grin is pleased and amused. “Betcha didn’t think I could clean up this well, did you?”

  I roll my eyes at him. “I wasn’t sure you owned anything besides ratty old blue jeans and electrical supply company hoodies and T-shirts.”

  “Surprise!” He spins in a circle, arms outstretched, and then does a goofy little dance. “I have button-downs and blazers!”

  I touch his elbow. “The elbow patches on the corduroy blazer? Major turn-on.”

  He arches an eyebrow. “Are you being sarcastic?”

  I laugh.
“No! I’m being dead serious. I had no idea I even thought so until I saw it on you just now, but for some reason, the patches just do it for me.” I laugh again, self-consciously. “Who knew the professor look was such a turn-on?”

  He shakes his head. “Well, I’ll be sure to wear blazers with patches more often, in that case.” His eyes rake over me, slowly, sliding from head to toe and back again. “Laurel, you look…”

  I smile, huffing a laugh as he trails off. “I look what?”

  He holds out his hands palms up and then drops them at his sides. “Breathtaking.”

  I duck my head, the compliment sending a rush of warmth through me, a thrill of excitement settling in my belly. “Thank you.”

  I’m wearing a dress I’ve had for years, but haven’t had reason to wear until now. A curve-hugging bandage dress, it’s a pale green that makes my eyes pop even more brightly, showing off my naturally tan skin, and emphasizing my assets to an almost indecent degree. Paired with a push-up bra, the effect is, honestly, pretty jaw-dropping.

  I turn in a slow circle, because the back of the dress is racerback, showing off my shoulders, which I work hard to make sure look amazing.

  He whistles. “Seriously, Laurel. I didn’t think you could get any sexier, and then you put on that dress.”

  I grin. “Thanks. I’ve had this for years, but haven’t had a chance to wear it until now”

  Ryder frowns. “Well that’s a goddamn shame.” He grins, then. “I’ll have to make sure to take you out to a lot of fancy dinners in that case, so you can wear that dress for me again.”

  I smirk. “Or I could wear another one.”

  He widens his eyes. “You have more like that?”

  My smirk turns mischievous. “You’ll have to take me on more nice dates so you can find out.”

  His expression is heated, then. Deadly serious. “Am I allowed to claim you every weekend Nate is with his dad?”

  I want to shout “YES!” but instead I just shrug. “Let’s see how this weekend goes first, shall we?”

  He just snickers. “Playing it cool, I see. That’s fine. I can play it cool too.” He takes my bag and gestures to the curb. “Shall we?”

  I check my purse for keys and phone and other essentials, make sure I’ve turned off all the lights, and then lock my door behind me. Turning to follow Ryder, I glance at my phone to make sure I don’t have any last minute work emails, and then silence it and put it in the pocket inside my purse. When I look up, I’m startled to see a bright orange classic BMW instead of his antique box truck.

  I look over the car. “Wow. This is awesome!”

  He grins proudly. “It’s a 1965 BMW 700. Once I finished my truck, I needed a new weekend project, and restoring cars has been my hobby since I was a teenager. My uncle was a classic car restoration expert, and I spent every weekend during the school year and most of my summers in his shop, helping him and learning.” He pats the roof of the car. “This baby was a hell of a lot of work, and more money than I’d like to admit, but she turned out pretty slick, if I do say so myself.”

  I nod admiringly. “I’d have to agree. I don’t know anything about cars, but this thing is really cool.”

  “It’s got the original flat six in it, the original radio, and all the hardware and upholstery is vintage BMW as well, just not original to this car.”

  “So, do you own any cars newer than this one?” I ask, joking, as he opens the passenger door for me.

  I buckle up and admire the clean, classic interior as he rounds the hood and slides in.

  “Nope.” He chuckles. “Actually, that’s not true. I do have an old beater pickup in my barn. It’s from…ahh…eighty-eight? Eighty-six? Somewhere around there. A big old monster of a thing with a rusted bed and wheel wells, but it’s a four-by-four and pretty much unstoppable. I drive it in the worst of the winter weather. I tinker with it now and then, now that the Beemer is pretty much done, but I’m leaving it as a beater.”

  I laugh. “So nothing actually new.”

  He snorts, derisive and dismissive. “Nah. New cars aren’t my thing. There’s no fun in ’em. I like to buy a junked-out old piece of shit and turn it into something beautiful.” He pats the steering wheel. “This, for example, was basically just the body when I bought it. The engine had been parted out, the upholstery was in shreds, the glass was gone, but the body and frame were in amazing condition. I spent months looking for the right motor to put in this thing, and once that was done, the rest was fairly easy.”

  “So now that this is done, are you gonna find a new project?”

  We’re heading for downtown Chicago, a drive of a little over half an hour. He shrugs. “I don’t know. Probably, eventually. I only really finished the last few touches on this over the summer, so I’ll probably just enjoy driving her for a while. Eventually I’ll need a new project, though.”

  “What do you think it’ll be?”

  “Ehhh? I don’t know. I’ve done a muscle car; I’ve done a truck, and now this. I think I’d like to work on something a little obscure or different. One of those old seventies or eighties Toyotas or Land Rovers like you see in the documentaries about Africa or Australia, or an Austin Healy, or a Fiat, or a Rolls or something.”

  As we continue down I-294, we chat about his passion for restoring old cars for a while, and then he asks about how I ended up working for a nonprofit.

  “Honestly, it was mostly just chance,” I say. “I’d been working dead-end jobs for years—waitressing, hostessing, answering phones, crap like that. I have a degree in business, but when Paul and I got married, I got pregnant with Nate pretty much right away, and we decided I’d be a stay-at-home mom. But then Paul couldn’t hold down a steady job, and I didn’t have the time to really go job hunting properly, I just had to find something to pay the bills. And this was when the market was in the tank and there were no jobs anyway, so finding a job as a waitress was pretty much the best I could do at the time. I had the degree and the internship, but no experience, so I couldn’t just go and get a career-trajectory sort of job even in a good economy. Then Paul and I divorced, and I was…” I shake my head and shrug. “I was miserable. I was overweight and out of shape, working two jobs as a single mother, and getting basically nothing from Paul in alimony or child support. I decided the first thing I had to fix was my body, because that was the one thing I felt like I could control. So, I hired Audra to kick my ass into shape, because I was seriously at least fifty pounds overweight, probably more.”

  Ryder eyes me. “I have trouble picturing that.”

  I snort. “You don’t want to picture that, Ryder. It wasn’t good. At all. I’m not sure there are any photographs of me from that period, now that I think about it. Working and taking care of Nate was all I could do…it was just raw survival. But I’d gotten so fat and out of shape that I was ashamed of myself and refused to take pictures. And, really, it was just Nate and me for the first couple years. I had no friends, my parents are retired and live in Arizona, and my sister and her husband have five kids and live in Oregon. I moved here with Paul after we got married because he’d gotten a job of some kind. I don’t remember what, but it was a bullshit job that paid crap and he got fired after six months, leaving us with three grand a month in bills and no income, and a one-year-old son.”

  “Ouch. So you went to work.”

  I nod. “I went to work. I had no time to think about trying to transition from dead-end restaurant jobs to a career, because it was all I could do just to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. But I was just…honestly, at the end of my rope. Something had to change. It had to. And I figured the one thing that was in my control was what I ate and whether or not I was in shape. So I took extra shifts, saved my money, and paid Audra up front for six months of personal training. I told her I wanted to feel pretty again.”

  Ryder’s smile is understanding. “I can empathize. After my divorce, I started drinking a lot and eating garbage. It was Franco who ended up kicki
ng my ass into shape.” He laughs. “That about ended our friendship, though, because he was a real bastard about it. You’ve seen him—he’s so shredded it’s embarrassing. But, he got me to eat a bit more cleanly, made me do burpees and push sleds and barbell cleans and all that shit until I legitimately hated him.”

  I laugh. “Oh god, I feel you there. I loathed and craved going to the gym in equal measure. I loathed it because burpees are from Satan and cleans are a close second, but I craved it because I started feeling strong again, and my clothes started getting looser and the scale finally started going to a number I wasn’t embarrassed by.”

  “So how does getting into shape lead you to managing a nonprofit?”

  We’re nearing downtown, now—the skyline is in front of us and getting closer by the mile.

  “I was in shape, eating clean, feeling good…and still making crap for money. I’d managed to get promoted to assistant manager of a restaurant, so at least I was on a salary, but it was only nominally more money—it was steady, predictable money instead of the unpredictability of waitress tips. But I hated it. I hated the hours, I hated the food, I hated everything about it. And once I’d taken back control over what I looked like and felt like, the next logical step was improving my living situation. So, I started putting in applications. With no real business experience, I got zero offers from anything that wasn’t just a step sideways. I went from assistant manager to general manager, and actually sort of turned the restaurant around a bit. It had been floundering pretty badly, and when the GM quit, the owner put me in charge. So, I did things my way. Fired people and hired new ones, adjusted the menu, did some minor updates to the decor, streamlined the finances. It got business on the uptick, and I think that year or so of turning the restaurant around was what got me the job. One of my regulars was a woman named Mary-Jo. She was older, retired, a widow, and very well-off. The restaurant was walking distance to her condo, so she ate breakfast there every morning, and we got to be friends, because I always worked the opening shift. One day, she called me over to sit down with her after the breakfast rush.”