Molly McAdams - Capturing Peace

“I know what you said. Have a good rest of your day.” With a wink, I turned and started the run back to my condo.

She didn’t make any more protests, and I didn’t stop smiling the entire way home. From what I’d seen of her, I wouldn’t put it past her to ignore me just to spite me. But I’d also seen her reaction to me, and because of that, I spent the rest of the day doing nothing but thinking of her, and waiting for a call.

Reagan—­ August 20, 2010

I PACED AROUND my apartment for thirty minutes after I’d dropped Parker off. It wasn’t my first night without him, but it was the first he’d be with someone other than my parents. And even those nights were rare. I was seriously considering going back to pick him up, but he’d been so excited to go . . . I couldn’t do that to him.

I so did not want Parker growing up having me as his only friend. Those mom-­and-­son pairs who were so close the guy ended up not dating when he got older because he was such a momma’s boy were creepy, and I didn’t want that for my son. I loved having our nights alone at home, but I wanted him to have a fun life, I wanted him to have friends like Jason, and girlfriends later . . . way later. I just hadn’t realized he was old enough for this stage yet.

Sitting on the couch, I turned on the TV and stared at it, not paying attention to what was on, as my legs continued to bounce up and down. Glancing at the clock, I groaned when I saw it was only five. This was going to be the longest night ever.

My eyes kept darting to my phone sitting on the coffee table, and I tried to think of someone to call. Anyone. Well, anyone other than Coen.

I didn’t need to call Keegan to get Coen’s number; Keegan had sent it to me early this week. His text had said it was in case of an emergency, but I wasn’t dumb, I knew why he’d sent it to me. I just hadn’t considered using it.

Until now.

Standing quickly, I walked into my kitchen and stared into the pantry, and then the fridge, looking for something to make for dinner. But I wasn’t seeing anything. I was freaking the fuck out because my son was having his first sleepover! Slamming the refrigerator door shut, I went back to pacing around my living room for another few minutes as I nervously played with the ends of my long hair.

I considered calling my mom for about five seconds before I realized how ridiculous that was. I’m twenty-­two. I have a free night for the first time in a long time, and I want to call my mom? When did I turn into an old lady?

Walking to the coffee table, I bent and grabbed at my phone, determined to call one of my friends. But instead I was opening up Keegan’s texts and scrolling up until I reached the number. Before I could talk myself out of it, I pressed the number and hit CALL.

“Hello?”

“Distract me,” I blurted out.

There were a few seconds of silence, before his deep voice asked, “Duchess?”

Goose bumps covered my body, and I swear to God I had to stop myself from whimpering. This morning replayed through my head, the way his lean, muscled body had been covered in a fine sheen of sweat. The way his chest had felt under my hand. His tattoos.

I hated tattoos. Hated them. But I’d wanted to trace every one of his. I’d wanted to study every picture and word covering his arms and chest. I’d wanted to see what the letters on his fingers spelled out. I’d wanted to watch his tattooed hands as they touched me.

Bad. Bad. So bad. Calling him was the wrong thing to do.

Clearing my throat, I tried to put force behind my words, but I failed miserably. “I’ll hang up if you call me that again.”

He laughed softly. “Reagan.”

“Yes?”

Another laugh and I had to sit down on the couch when my legs started shaking. “You’re the one who called me. Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“Oh, um. I need you to distract me.”

“Parker go to his friend’s house?”

I made some sort of affirmative noise, worried that if I said it out loud, I’d start freaking out all over again.

“Do you want me to come pick you up?”

“No!” I shouted, and scrambled to find something to say. “I—­I just—­can I just come over?”

I didn’t want him in my apartment. This was my place with Parker, and having Coen here didn’t seem right. If he came over, if he got comfortable being here, that would be a step in the direction of letting him into Parker’s life as well. I didn’t care that he’d met Parker . . . I was already over what had happened this morning; but I wasn’t ready for him to be here yet. And if we went out and happened to run into my parents or their friends, I would never hear the end of it. My mom would start planning a wedding the second she knew his name. Or maybe when she got over me actually bringing someone into Parker’s life.

“Sure . . . ?”

“I’m sorry, I just don’t want to go out.”

“Okay,” he said carefully. “Well, yeah, you’re more than welcome to come here. Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“All right, we’ll order something when you get here.”

I stood there playing with the ends of my hair for a few seconds before I said, “This isn’t a date.”

“Of course not,” he said, his tone amused. “It’s a distraction.”

“Right.” A very, very bad distraction.

He gave me his address before we hung up, and I ran into my closet. A part of me told me to go in my yoga pants and shirt, since that’s what he’d seen me in earlier and I didn’t want him to think I’d dressed for him. But another wanted to look like more than a tired mom when I was around him.

After going through three outfits, I settled on a pair of short black shorts and a light gray off-­the-­shoulder shirt. Casual, and comfy . . . and hopefully I didn’t look like I had tried as hard as I did to look both. With a quick touch-­up to my makeup, I grabbed my phone, purse, and keys and left my apartment before I could talk myself into staying there instead.

During the ten-­minute drive there, I tried to make myself turn around the entire time. Even as I walked up to his condo, I kept chanting to myself how bad of an idea this was, and how I needed to go back home. When he answered the door in low-­slung jeans and another black shirt, I almost turned around and walked away.

Such a bad idea.

“You look beautiful.” His dark eyes slowly raked over my body before resting on my face again.

“This isn’t a date,” I reminded him again, and he laughed.

“And you still can’t take a compliment.” Opening the door wider, he stepped back to give me room. “Come in, I’m starving.”

I stood there for a few seconds before barely turning back toward his driveway. “Maybe I should—­”

Coen grabbed my hand and pulled me into his condo before shutting the door behind us. “Stop second-­guessing everything. You wanted a distraction, and I’m hungry. So we’re going to have our it’s-­not-­a-­date-­it’s-­a-­distraction night, and you’re going to learn how to relax.”

“I know how to relax.”

“You sure about that?” he asked, the rise of one eyebrow challenging me to argue.

I couldn’t.

HOURS LATER, WE were full on pizza, and had been watching movies on Coen’s TV. I’d laughed more tonight that I usually did in a week’s time, and as the hours had passed, I’d slowly felt myself relaxing into him. Something about his easygoing laugh, his no-­bullshit attitude, and mesmerizing eyes had left me leaning into him more, and enjoying his company . . . and being terrified of that.

“I shit you not”—­he pointed at the screen and leaned forward so he could look at me—­“that’s Casey from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles .”