Every summer we go through this, and every summer is the same. He’s nervous about leaving me, until he’s on the plane, and then it’s just a big adventure and I practically have to bribe him to come home.
“What about Mr. Rhys?”
I stop folding clothes and glance at my son, who continues to punch his fist into his mitt. “What about him?”
“Will he be gone when I get back?”
Ah, there it is.
“No, sweetie, he’ll still be here. He’s going to be here for a while.”
He lifts his big brown eyes to mine. “What if he doesn’t like me anymore when I get home?”
I laugh and begin organizing his suitcase.
“Now you’re just being silly. Of course he’ll still like you. I still like you when you come home, don’t I?”
“You have to like me. You’re my mama.”
I sit on the bed and pull him into my lap. When did he get so big?
“I love you, and Rhys likes you, and none of that will change when you get home.”
He snuggles against me, and I bury my nose in his hair. “Promise?”
“Of course I promise.”
“When do I get my dog?”
The change of subject makes me grin. “When it’s old enough to come home. About a month, I guess.”
“Okay.”
He scrambles off my lap and tosses a baseball into his suitcase. “Last year, Lennie lost my ball, so I better take a spare.”
“Good idea.”
“What are we having for dinner?”
“Fried chicken with collard greens and grits.”
“My favorite!”
“Of course. You’re going to be gone for a whole week.”
“Eight days.”
***
I can hear the guests chatting and laughing in the drawing room. It’s evening, and even on a Saturday night, they’ve returned to the inn rather than get wild and crazy in the city. I made sure there was plenty of wine, treats, and soft drinks to keep them happy before coming into the kitchen to deal with the dishes.
I don’t mind washing dishes by hand. It gives me time to stop moving long enough to think. To make plans. To daydream.
“What are you doing?”
Apparently, I was daydreaming deep enough to not hear Rhys come in the kitchen.
“I’m waxing the floor,” I reply sweetly. His eyes narrow as he approaches and takes in all of the dishes I still have to wash.
“Why are you doing all of this by hand?”
“Because the dishwasher died on me this morning. I need to call someone to come out and fix it, but I don’t want to pay weekend rates. Besides, the guests will be gone tomorrow.” I shrug and plunge a dinner plate in the soapy water, scrubbing furiously.
Rhys joins me, standing entirely too close.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
“Helping.”
“No. You help out all the time. I draw the line at washing dishes by hand.”
He smirks, grabs a towel and begins drying the dishes then putting them away. “You don’t need to wait on me hand and foot, Gabby.”
“Actually, I think that’s exactly what you’re paying me to do.”
“No,” he replies and brushes my hair behind my shoulder to avoid the water. “I’m paying to sleep in a room.”
“I’m not going to argue about this.”
“Good plan.”
Don’t argue, flirt!
Right. How do I do that, exactly?
“How was your day?” I ask, clearly failing at all things flirty.
“It was good. I had a call from a trainer that actually went well.”
“You did?” I glance up in surprise. I had no idea.
“Yeah, they want to check in each week to see how my workouts are going.”
“If Sam is bothering you when you workout—”
He slaps my ass with the dishtowel, then resumes drying dishes. “I told you he doesn’t bother me. He’s good company. Smart as hell, that kid.”
“I know.” I nod proudly. “His homework is gonna scare me next year.”
“He’s a good baseball player too,” Rhys adds. “He says you practice with him sometimes.”
“I play catch with him. It seems to be the only thing that saves my windows.” Rhys smirks, and that smile makes me clench my legs and my fists, and heat settles low and steady in my belly.
I want to freaking climb this man, and I’ve never had that urge a day in my life.
He brushes by me, braces his hand on my low back as he passes, again making me catch my breath, then returns to dry more dishes.
We fall into a quiet, comfortable silence, the sound of the water sloshing the only sound in the room, aside from the occasional laugh from the drawing room.
“Tell me about you and Kate,” I murmur.
“Ah, ‘tis a sad story,” he begins with an Irish brogue, making me smile. “And that makes you smile. You have a beautiful smile.” He drags the pad of his thumb down my cheek to my jawline, and every nerve in my body is suddenly on high alert. “You should never stop smiling.”
“I liked your brogue,” I whisper, watching his lips, which tip up.
“I’m sure you know we’re Irish.”
“The O’Shaughnessy sort of gave it away,” I agree. “Plus, I know Kate.”
“Have you heard this story?”
“Not from you,” I reply and scrub the pan that I fried the chicken in.
“Fair enough.” He nods and takes the pan from my hands, scrubbing it himself, just a bit harder than I can. When it’s clean, he dries it and I resume washing. “So, Kate’s da and my da were brothers. Kate’s parents moved to the Denver area before she was born, for her da’s work.”