Single mom Leah Shriver is doing her best.
But raising a teen boy who grunts and barely speaks doesn’t help, especially when her life has been turned upside down.
Then she meets Brody Holt. The six-foot two inch brick wall of muscle is a workman; a handyman who fixes things.
A man who’s recently been dealt a blow. Attracting attention when he doesn’t seek it is a hazard that Brody’s gotten used to. Women seem to like a strapping man with a tool belt around his waist.
But then he meets a woman who isn’t trying to catch his eye.
A woman who wants to be left alone.
A woman who is alone, in the one place she shouldn’t be.
And he finds himself in the peculiar position of having to catch her eye.
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Excerpt:
“I’ll be home a little later tonight. I’ve got another appointment.” Leah waited for her sulky teen son to say something, but Peter’s eyes were glued to his cell phone.
“It’s my last one,” she added, but if she was waiting for support—some excitement even—from her son, she didn’t get it. It was delusional to think so. “You don’t have anything to say?”
Her teenage son glanced up, his mouth twisting in mild resentment at the interruption. “Cool.”
“My last one, hopefully,” she said carefully, knowing that he didn’t like to talk about these things. “That should be a good thing, no?”
His shoulders, specifically one shoulder, lifted, then dropped, and he went back to his cell phone again. She couldn’t gauge his reaction. Was he pleased for her? Did he even care?
Maybe if she’d had a daughter, her response might have been different, but it was no use wondering about such things. She wasn’t going to have any more children.
Not now.
So, she would never know.
Her family was complete; it was just her and Peter. Before this, she’d hoped to meet someone. She’d been eager to find a life partner, someone reliable and dependable, someone who could be a good father to her boy. Someone with whom she could share her life. A man who would make her happy. But it hadn’t happened. She’d been unlucky, and now there was no point in looking.
Her goals had changed.
Life had changed, and she no longer possessed the energy, or the desire. She no longer had such trivial dreams.
Life now, was about survival.
Yet life with Peter had changed. She missed the lovely, adorable little boy her son had once been. Now on the cusp of puberty, this teenage version was so very different. She wasn’t even sure she liked him much on some days. She loved him with all her heart, as any mother loved her child, but like him? Some days, no.
“There are leftovers from yesterday in the fridge,” she continued, slowly getting up from the table. “Do you want Hyacinth to check in on you?”
He glanced up at her from his cell phone, momentarily. “Nah.” It was a grunt, with a word wrapped around it. He went back to his phone.
Her parents had left Starling Bay and moved to Iowa—they had visited her, briefly, to see how she was—and her brother kept in touch via texting. A little more support would have been helpful, but she’d long known she couldn’t rely on others, not even her family, too much. People disappointed more often than not; after her husband initiated divorce proceedings, when Peter had been five years old, Leah had learned to depend on no one but herself.
But Hyacinth Fitzsimmons, her latest employer, a hitherto formidable woman, became one of the few people she relied on for support in these difficult times. The woman had her moments. She’d been bossy, always believing she was right, and she didn’t pander to others, but when it mattered, Hyacinth came through for her.
Leah put her dishes away in the dishwasher and then turned around, the ball of simmering resentment in her belly starting to smoulder. “How many times have I told you not to bring that device to the dining table?” She hated Peter’s cell phone, more to the point, she hated his usage of the device. She’d only given it to him so that he could reach her if he ever needed to in an emergency.
“Peter!” she cried, when he didn’t respond. His eyes were still glued to the home-wrecking device; that’s what these things did, in her opinion. They stole children from their parents, and for children, they stole their time, their attention, their concentration. “Peter!”
“What?” Her son possessed the ability to infuse a word with so much anger.
“Don’t you what me,” she snapped.
He glared at her and pushed the phone away, then stood up, leaving his half-eaten bowl of cereal. He was jabbing all of her buttons this morning, and she didn’t need this. Not now. Not today.
“What do you want me to say?” he growled. “You told me what you’re doing, and you asked me if I wanted Hyacinth—”
“She’s Miss Fitzsimmons to you.”
“Whatever.”
Push, push, push went her buttons.
“Do what you want.” She marched out of the kitchen, got her things, and before she left the house, she caught sight of herself in front of the mirror.
At only thirty one years, she looked and dressed more like a middle aged frump. She was more tired than ever, not enough to make her curl up and lie in bed all day. She was lucky, and maybe her age had something to do with that, but she could still function. She could still go to work and cook and clean and be there for the son who didn’t really care if she was or not.
As a single mom, she didn’t have the luxury of taking it easy. There was no one else to depend on. She was the sole breadwinner, and it was down to her to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table, even for the boy who didn’t seem to appreciate it all.
Disgusted with what she had become, dressing for comfort, for invisibility, now that there was no reason to catch anyone’s eye, she walked out, but just before she closed the door, she thought she heard a ‘Good luck.’
Maybe not. It was possible that she was hearing things. Mustering her limited reserves of energy and strength, she held her head high and put on a brave face, reminding herself that today was going to be a good day.
It was, because she’d lived to see another day.