Perfect Kiss by Lacey Black
Chapter 11
Malcolm
“Hey, Malcolm. How have you been?”
I turn around and find Grady Jackson standing behind me. He was a few years younger than me in school, but I know him well enough to consider him a friend. Hell, I guess everyone is your friend in this town, but I’ve always liked Grady. “Good, man. You?”
“Can’t complain.” He spots what I’m holding in my hand and gives me a quizzical look. “That’s probably a little small for you,” he teases, referring to the child’s life jacket I’m holding.
I chuckle and give him a glance. “Yeah, it definitely wouldn’t fit me.” Then something hits me. “You have a small child. Would you say this fits a five-year-old?” I ask, holding it up. I went off the size chart on the cardboard tag attached and tried to guestimate Trace’s height and weight.
He looks it over. “Yeah, that’s the size I have for Jillian, and she’s not quite five. That should work.”
Nodding, I tuck the vest under my arm. “I appreciate the help.” I wait for him to ask more, but Grady’s never been one to dig for dirt like so many of the others in town.
“No problem,” he says, turning to head a little farther down the aisle. “Did you hear Tucker’s playing this Saturday at Pony Up? Charlee’s really wanting to go up and hear him play. I think Grayson and Laken are going too, if you’re interested.”
I nod, appreciating the invitation. “Thanks, I’ll definitely keep that in mind.”
He holds up a hand to wave. “See ya around.”
Grady disappears down an aisle while I take my purchase to the counter. Once I’ve paid and the new life jacket is in a bag, I walk back to the office just down the block, prepared to get a little work done before I need to go to City Hall. Of course, as soon as I walk in, my dad is sitting in the lobby, and he’s talking to none other than my grandpa.
“Malcolm,” my grandpa’s boisterous voice booms through the seating area.
“Hey, Grandpa. What are you doing here?” I ask, noticing our secretary, Elaina, isn’t here and probably out to lunch.
“I was on my way to grab some tortilla shells. Grandma has a taste for tacos for dinner, but we’re out of shells, so I volunteered to run to the grocery store.”
“Grandma has a hankering for tacos?” I can’t help but chuckle. My grandparents are the best ever. Despite being wildly successful before retirement, they’ve always been down to earth and cool like that.
“Yep. You interested in joining us?” he offers, his eyes bouncing between my face and the bag in my hand.
“Sorry, I’m unavailable. I have plans,” I tell him, setting my bag down, yet trying to keep the contents concealed by the chair.
“Plans? They wouldn’t happen to be with a certain brunette who owns a local business and has a small son, would they?” the oldest Wright asks, his lips turned upward as he waits.
I look at my dad, who just holds up his hands. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t say anything.”
“He didn’t have to,” Grandpa declares. “You know this town better than that, Malcolm. Your grandma’s phone was chirping before you even left the park last Friday night.”
I sigh, really disliking the chatter more now than ever before. “I’m sure she got an earful,” I reply, taking a seat and crossing my arms over my chest.
He shrugs. “You know a lot of the stuff is hearsay anyway, but since you didn’t deny it, I’ll take at least part of the story as fact.”
Dammit.
“I’ve hung out with Lenora Abbott a few times,” I confirm but go into no more detail.
“And I take it the life jacket in that bag you’re trying to hide behind the chair is for her son?”
I sigh and close my eyes, suddenly wishing I hadn’t come back to the office so quickly. “Had I known I was going to encounter the Spanish Inquisition, I’d have gone for coffee first,” I state, making both men laugh. “Yes, the vest is for Trace, Lenora’s five-year-old son. I’m taking him fishing today, while Leni works. She had a family emergency last week and ended up bringing him with her, so we went out back while she cleaned. The boy’s a fan of fishing, so I thought we’d go.”
“Ahh, yes, I saw Lisa Abbott at the post office earlier in the week. Lewis took a bit of a tumble and sprained his ankle pretty good. I guess he’s on crutches for a week or two,” Grandpa says to my dad before turning his gaze back to me. When he does, he just smiles a wide, knowing grin.
“What?” I ask, hating that he can read me so damn well. He’s always been able to tell what I’m thinking, from the time I was a young boy until now. It’s one of the many qualities that made Grandpa an amazing lawyer.
My tone apparently amuses him, and he laughs. When he sobers, he just says, “You like her.”
I scoff in denial, but it’s useless. Instead of the confession he’s anticipating, I say, “I barely know her.”
Grandpa shrugs. “What does that matter? Every relationship has a beginning. I barely knew your grandma when I met her, even though we were both raised right here in Mason Creek. She was just young enough I knew of her but didn’t know any of the things that mattered. Those things I learned along the way, but I decided to try because I was attracted to her, and I needed to know more.”
I pull a face. “Please don’t go into any more details about your attraction.”
Grandpa lets a hearty laugh rip. “You don’t want to hear how your father got here?”
“Dad, we’ve all heard the Chevy Bel Air story. Please spare us,” my dad replies.
Grandpa holds up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. I won’t talk about the night your mom and I went parking on our way to the Davis Bridge, the one the old man built for his wife on private property. All the kids used to sneak back there and kiss.”
Dad snorts. “Sounds like they did more than park.”
“Still do,” I mumble aloud.
“My point is, you’ve got to take a risk to reap the reward, Malcolm.”
“Thank you, Grandpa. This has been an educational and slightly nauseating conversation,” I state, standing up and grabbing the bag. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a few hours of work I need to finish.”
As I turn to head to my office, Grandpa hollers, “Have fun tonight. I hear the fish are biting.”
Waving, I secure myself inside my office, ready to get to work. The sooner I complete my to-do list, the quicker I’m home and fishing with my new little friend.
And out of all the things I could do tonight—all the women I could be with—the thought of it being anyone but them is unfathomable.
* * *
“Malcolm!” Trace hollers, running up the driveway to where I stand.
“Hey, Champ. Are you ready to go fishing?” I ask, dropping to my knees in front of him.
“Yep! I broughted my Spider-Man pole,” he informs.
“Great. Let’s help your mom get her stuff inside and settled, and then we’ll go wet a line, okay?”
“Okay!” Trace runs back to the trunk of the car and helps Leni remove her things. The third and final item she pulls out is a short Spider-Man pole with bright green line and a red and white bobber.
“You carry the pole, and I’ll help your mom with this tote,” I inform the little guy, who carefully handles the fishing device, carrying it into the garage.
“It doesn’t have a hook on it. My dad removed it after their excursion because Trace kept wanting to play with it,” Lenora says, trailing behind as we step inside the mudroom.
“I’ll take care of it,” I tell her, holding the door open for her to enter. “Probably smart of him,” I add, glancing back to see Trace pretending to cast beside my car.
“Trace, not too close to Mr. Wright’s car, please,” she hollers before stepping inside completely.
The little boy runs inside, excitement radiating from his tiny body, as he helps his mom unpack her things. The second he has the last item set on the floor, he turns to face her with big, hopeful eyes. “Can I go now?”
She grins at her son. “You have to listen to Malcolm the whole time, okay? And be very careful.”
He sighs, as if he’s heard her request for caution many times in the past. “I be careful, Mommy.”
“And I bought a life jacket,” I add, hoping to ease some of the worry lines around Leni’s eyes.
She looks up, meeting my gaze, and gives me a grateful smile. It sends my heartbeat into stroke-level territory, and I don’t know why. I’ve never reacted to a simple grin before, not the way I do with hers. “Thank you.”
I’m pretty sure she’s not just referring to the life jacket I purchased.
I nod and turn to Trace. “Ready to go, Champ?”
“Yes!” he bellows, throwing his hands in the air and running to grab his fishing pole.
“Do you need me for anything?” I ask, happy to see her for the first time since last Friday night at ice cream. Even though we’ve texted a few times randomly since, I haven’t locked eyes on her in six long days. Monday night, my committee meeting went long, resulting in her already leaving the building by the time I was finished, which sucked because I really wanted to see her.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she replies, those gorgeous hazel eyes a little brighter than usual.
Nodding, I state, “Holler if you need anything. We’ll just be out back.”
I watch her gather what she needs for the kitchen and begins her work. It’s weird I could stand here and watch her work the entire time, but that’s not going to happen. There’s a little boy with his face practically pressed against the sliding door, anxiously waiting for me to join him outside.
I already dug out what we needed from the shed and placed it on the back patio. The new life jacket, worms, net, and a small tacklebox is ready to go. “All right, Trace, let’s put on your life jacket and take our stuff to the dock.”
He shows me his missing teeth as he grins up at me. “That’s the same colors as my pole,” he declares as I hold up the red and white striped vest.
“It is.” I make sure it’s secure and tight before picking up the box of supplies and container of worms.
“Where’s yours?”
I stop and face the child. “My what?” He pulls on his life jacket. “Oh, I didn’t bring one for me.”
“Mommy says you should always have a life jacket around the water.”
His words are simple, yet a direct reminder of how much his mother loves him. “Then I should probably put one on too, huh?”
Trace nods eagerly and follows me to the shed. Honestly, I don’t know when the last time I wore one was. I don’t wear it when I kayak or canoe, mostly because I’m a great swimmer. But they always say lead by example, right? That’s why I dig one out of the shed, blow off the dust, and slip it on over my T-shirt.
Finally, we’re all set to go fishing.
I find myself explaining everything to a very curious little boy as I secure the hook onto his line and bait it. He giggles as the worm wiggles against my fingers, leaving smears of dirt in its wake. When the pole is finally ready to cast, we take position at the end of the dock.
“You got this, Champ?” I ask, handing over the pole.
Trace nods eagerly, presses the big red button, draws back the pole, and lets it fly. Considering it’s a small kid’s pole, he does a great job.
“Perfect,” I compliment, reminding him to set the line.
Then, we take a seat at the end of the dock. Our feet dangle, but mine are much closer to the water than his. He swings them anxiously but tries to keep his pole as still as possible. Every once in a while, he’ll reel a bit of his line, making sure to keep it tight. Considering he’s only five, he’s doing very well with what his grandpa clearly taught him.
After only a few minutes, he gets a bite. “Very slowly get ready to set the hook,” I whisper, watching as the bobber dips below the water. “Now.”
Trace jerks back on the pole, setting the hook inside the fish’s mouth, and starts to reel. The end of the small pole bends downward, but if he’s struggling to pull it in, he doesn’t show it.
“Nice and steady, Champ. You got it,” I state, standing up and grabbing the net. When he gets the fish to the surface, I drop to my knees and scoop it up. Trace jumps up now, kneeling right beside me and watching in utter fascination as I bring his catch onto the dock. “Look at the size of that catfish.”
“It’s huge!” he declares, obviously proud of his fifteen-inch catfish.
“It sure is. Stand up and you can hold your fish. I’ll take a picture for your mom.”
He does, lifting his pole and grabbing the line. I help him get into position and grab my phone. I’m able to snap a handful of pictures with Trace grinning proudly as he holds up his big catch. He struggles to keep holding up the fish, so I step in and grab the line.
With the fish back on the dock, he bends over, watching my every move as I grab pliers from the tacklebox and carefully remove the hook. When it’s free of the sharp object, I lift the fish carefully, and hold it up. “Do you want to hold it?”
He observes the fish for a few seconds before nodding.
“You have to do it like this,” I show him, “or the fins might poke you.” I take his little hands and replace mine with his.
He instantly starts to giggle. “It’s slippery!”
“It is,” I agree, grabbing my phone once more and taking a picture of him checking out his fish and not even caring that I’m getting the device dirty.
I explain where the catfish can get you, the fins puncturing your skin and causing discomfort and pain. Trace listens intently, soaking up everything I say like a little sponge. I place the fish on a stringer line and slowly lower it back into the water, securing the lock on the post of the dock. Then, I grab the pliers and make sure the hook is ready to go.
“Are we done now?” he asks, disappointment evident in his question.
I smile and squeeze his shoulder. “No, Champ. We’re just getting started.”
