Perfect Kiss by Lacey Black
Chapter 8
Leni
I’ve been watching them out the window for the last five minutes. They’re just standing at the end of the dock, watching the water and holding hands. I can see Trace pointing at a fish jumping, his attention quickly focused upward as Malcolm explains something to him. The sight causes a funny palpitation in my chest. One that’s both reassuring and unsettling.
Trace’s dad has been an unstable figure in his life. Since I met Greg, he’s worked for the railroad, traveling all over the northern West Coast to build and help maintain rail systems. He would be gone for two-to-four-week stints, only to come home and go out all weekend, needing to unwind with his friends. For the last half of our relationship, he had another house about two hours closer to the rail yard where he worked.
He said it was just easier that way.
Only, when he stayed there, he never seemed to find the time to come back to where we were. We weren’t just second fiddle, we were third, somewhere behind his job and his friends. An inconvenience that was always waiting whenever he felt obligated to do his duty as a father.
That’s why I had to move back home.
I didn’t want Trace to ever feel like an inconvenience, and I knew, the older he got, the more he’d see. The worse he’d feel.
And I was tired of waiting. Of never knowing when he was going to come home, and in some cases, what shape he’d be in when he got there. If alcohol was more important than spending time with your family, then what’s the point?
I had a family who was dying to spend more time with Trace, to get to know him better than just a few long weekends a year over holidays or summer break. When I made the decision to move, it felt like the right thing to do. I knew in my heart bringing Trace home to Mason Creek was what he needed.
What we both needed.
I packed everything up, rented the biggest U-Haul van I could get with my license, and drove myself home. The only person I told I was coming was my mom, which, in turn, meant my dad. They were both waiting at the edge of the sidewalk for me when I pulled that big monstrosity into their driveway. The whole thing, start to finish, took just over two weeks. I hated not telling Laken I was coming, but I just needed to get it done. Move. Be home. The explanations of why could come later.
I’ve been home almost six months now, and Greg hasn’t reached out to me once.
Not. Once.
He has to know I moved, right? I mean, even after a few months, he’d at least pop in to see his son before darting off to some other part of the state again. Yet, I haven’t heard one peep from him.
Maybe that’s my fault. I suppose I should have reached out to him when I made the decision to relocate, but why? So I could tell his voicemail when he didn’t answer? And why do I always have to carry this one-sided relationship? Haven’t I earned a little more than a few random text messages and the occasional romp in the sheets when he’s home?
The answer is yes.
That’s why I didn’t tell him.
I expected him to care enough to call. To care enough about seeing Trace to find out why we weren’t in the small two-bedroom house anymore. I’d lived there since I was twenty-two and freshly out of college. God, he lived there with me for years, for crying out loud. Until he got his own place, essentially cutting us out of his life.
I tried to keep in touch. Even after we broke up—multiple times. I always texted him photos of Trace or funny stories about things he’d done. Every once in a while, he’d show up on my doorstep, declare he was going to be the dad and boyfriend we deserved. And then Monday morning would roll around, and he’d be gone again. Sometimes he’d keep in touch throughout the week, and other times, I could have been dying and I wouldn’t have gotten a damn reply to save my life.
After a while, you just get tired of trying.
Now, as I glance out at my son and the man holding his hand, I’m struck with a sense of longing. Even though I’m not in any hurry to fill that father-figure void in Trace’s life, the aching for it when I see them together is real. I try not to think too much into the picture they create, but it’s hard. It’s too…nice. Like a magazine cover or photo you’d print and hang over the fireplace.
But that’s not in the cards.
At least not now.
I’m not here to find a father for my son. I’m here to be closer to my family and provide a stable home for him to grow up in. A lot of moms are both mother and father, and I’ll do it too. Plus, Trace has my dad, who is one of the best father figures I know. Even though he was tough on Laken and me, he did it because he loved us, teaching us so many valuable lessons in life without us even realizing it.
Now, as an adult, it’s how he and my mom raised us that I use as a model to raise my own son.
I force myself to look away, even though the mother inside of me is screaming to watch Trace. I still have a job to do, and I’m not getting much of it done by gazing out the window every two seconds.
I quickly finish the kitchen and dining room before moving to the living room and foyer. After I dust and vacuum, I straighten up a few books he has lying on the coffee table. They’re World War II and Korean War biographies, which surprises me a little. They’re not exactly the light reading I’d expect an attorney and small-town mayor to enjoy.
Catching movement out of the corner of my eye, I glance out the large bay window in the kitchen to find Trace and Malcolm running to the edge of the property. I move with them, making sure to keep an eye on where they’re headed. Malcolm unlocks the outbuilding and pulls open the door. A few seconds later, he emerges with two fishing poles and a tackle box, and Trace throws his hands in the air in victory.
They chat away, approaching the sliding back door. My eyes meet Malcolm’s steady, reassuring gaze, and my heart can’t help but skip a beat. “Hey,” he says, sliding open the door. “Do you mind if we wet a line? We’re going to stay on the bank though, not fish from the dock, since Champ doesn’t have a life jacket.”
Champ.
He calls my son Champ.
Talk about butterflies fluttering in my chest.
“No, I think that’s fine. As long as you keep an eye on him,” I remind, even though I don’t need to.
“I got him, Lenora.” Malcolm winks at me before stepping inside to grab something from the freezer. It’s a bag of shrimp. “All right, Champ, this’ll have to do for tonight. Maybe next time, I’ll have something better to use,” he adds, heading back outside with their bait.
“Yay! Big fat worms! Papa says those catch the big fat fish!”
“They do! And I’ll have a life jacket for you next time so we can fish from the dock. I’ll teach you to cast real far,” he says as they head back out to the water. Trace turns around, smiling so widely I can see all of his missing teeth, and waves.
My heart.
By the time nine rolls around, I’m exhausted and ready to go home. Thursdays are a long day for me, since I work in the mornings at the laundromat selling my cleaning supplies from nine to eleven. A twelve-hour day really does a toll on this single mom.
When all of my supplies are packed up, I head for the back door to find my son. Since the sun has set, I’d like to think they’re finished with their fishing excursion, but maybe not. It’s way past Trace’s bedtime, so I’m hoping getting him gathered up and in the car isn’t a big production.
Opening the door, I’m pleasantly surprised to find them sitting on the back patio. They’re each sitting in a chair, Trace’s wide eyes glued to the man beside him as he listens to the story Malcolm’s sharing. “So there we were, reeling in this huge bluefin tuna, and it took about two hours to get it in by hand, me and my buddy switching off every twenty minutes. I was exhausted, but there was no way we were letting that fish get away.”
“How much did it weigh?” my son asks, leaning forward to not miss a detail.
“Five hundred pounds.”
“Wow! That’s huge!” Trace replies, his mouth dropping open.
“I’ve got a picture of us with the fish in my office. Next time you come back, I’ll show you before we go fishing.” Malcolm must sense my presence and glances over his shoulder and meets my gaze. “Hey.”
“All done,” I state unnecessarily.
He nods and stands. Trace follows suit.
“Mommy, guess what? We went fishing with shrimps and we caughted one. It was a catfish, like I caughted with Papa. And next week, Malc says I can come back and fish again. He’ll show me the biggest fish he caughted.”
I smile. “Hey, why don’t you go inside and wait for me by my totes, okay?”
“Okay,” he hollers right before running around me and into the house.
Malcolm stands directly in front of me, towering over me like a tree. I’ve always felt small, the shortest of my friends growing up. Heck, even my younger sister, Laken, is taller than me. But standing in front of Malcolm, I feel tiny. He’s nearly a foot taller than my five-foot three-inch frame. “Sorry if I overstepped, but I’ve enjoyed hanging out with him and fishing,” he says nervously, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“What did you mean by next week?”
“Well, while we were throwing that catfish back, it hit me. I have the equipment here, minus a small enough life jacket, which I can get. You can bring him with next Thursday when you clean, and we can hang out. I’ll get some worms too.”
I’m pretty sure my mouth is hanging open, but I don’t really know what to say. He actually wants me to bring my son back? For two hours? Is he nuts? “I’m not sure,” I start.
“It’s ultimately your decision, Leni, but I just thought it’d be something fun for Trace to do. Plus, I really enjoyed hanging out with him,” he says with a sheepish grin.
I want to argue. It’s not his responsibility to watch my son while I work. He’s the client, not the babysitter. And frankly, I don’t really know him. Not well. Not on a personal level. Sure, I know how my heart seems to skip a beat when he fixes those warm chocolate eyes on me, and how my panties are practically useless when he smiles.
“Listen, Malcolm, I appreciate your assistance where Trace is concerned, but he’s not your responsibility to watch.”
“I know. He’s yours, and I can tell just by spending these last two hours with him, you’re doing a great job with him. He’s a good kid.”
I can’t help but smile at the compliment. When you’re parenting solo, you’re constantly questioning every little decision you make and just trying not to mess up too much. It’s exhausting, to be honest. “Thank you.”
“Like I said, it’s your choice, Leni. Just know he’s welcome here. I’d love to take him fishing.” He doesn’t say anymore, just lets me know the decision is mine.
I nod in appreciation, grateful he’s not pushing me to say yes. Turning to head inside to gather my belongings, something catches my attention. “What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the pergola I didn’t notice before. It has lattice around three sides for privacy, the side facing the back of the house completely open.
Malcolm glances over his shoulder before answering. “That’s the hot tub.”
Images parade through my mind. Dirty ones with a chiseled chest and water dripping down the hard, muscular planes. The same ones that have been keeping me company for the last week and a half.
He leans closer, his warm breath tickling my ear as he whispers, “Maybe some night I’ll give you a private tour. Swimsuits optional.”
I can’t help but bark out a laugh. There he is. The cocky playboy I’ve come to expect. What’s surprising is I seem to enjoy the playful banter more than I ever thought I would, which is probably why I reply with a shrug and say, “I’ve already seen the goods, but I suppose if you wanted to relax without your swimsuit, who am I to stop you?”
He chuckles and glances into the house. I turn and find Trace standing at the door, yawning. “I should get him home. It’s way past his bedtime.”
“It is. I’ll walk you to your car,” he replies, pulling open the sliding glass door and waiting for me to enter first. “Ready to go, Champ? Want to help me carry your mom’s things to the car?”
Trace jumps right in, grabs for the tote. Of course, he needs assistance, since it’s heavier and awkward.
I don’t even have an opportunity to retrieve my own things. The boys grab it all and head for the front door, careful not to upend the plastic tote on wheels. Outside, they load my trunk, and all I can do is stand back and watch. Their interaction is so easy, natural. If Malcolm was ever nervous around my son, he’s not showing it now. In fact, he looks very comfortable, which is a pleasant surprise.
Malcolm grabs the back driver’s side door and pulls it open. “All right, Champ. Time to go home and get some sleep.”
“But I was good, right? I get ice cream?” he asks, his tired, hopeful eyes eager for an answer.
Malcolm looks over at me for confirmation, to which I give a slight nod. “You sure were, Champ. So good, I think you should get two scoops. No, make it three.”
I sigh and shake my head. Of course, there’s a small smile on my lips too. “You’re trouble, Mr. Mayor.”
He waggles his eyebrows and gives me that smug grin. “Don’t I know it.” Once Trace is secured into his seat, he shuts the door and opens mine.
“Thank you.” I don’t just mean him opening my door, and I can tell he understands by the way he smiles.
“You’re welcome.”
I slip into my seat and reach for the handle. “We’ll see you next week.”
His eyes light up. “Does that mean you’ll bring him with you?”
“Yes.” I realize instantly I want to. Their interaction, albeit somewhat brief, did this mom’s heart good. Trace looked comfortable and got to enjoy some time doing an activity he’s growing to love.
“Can’t wait,” he replies with a big smile.
He shuts my door and waves at Trace, stepping back and out of the way while I pull from his driveway. Malcolm remains standing there until I turn the corner and am out of sight, solidifying this growing attraction I feel toward him. It’s not just how he is with me—flirty, yet attentive—but now that I’ve seen this different side of him, the one directed at my son, I feel this whole new wave of fascination.
And damn it, even though I should be more cautious since Trace is involved, I want to see where it goes.
I just pray it doesn’t bite me in the ass.
