26. Tess
TWENTY-SIX
TESS
Little kid laughter has got to be the best sound in the world. Innocent and infectious, they laugh with their whole bodies, throwing everything into their enjoyment at top volume. August’s laughter draws me through my apartment to the back door. I crack it open and bask in my little boy’s giggles.
He’s seated across from Ian at our patio table, coloring books and crayons spread out between them. Dutch is sunning himself nearby, flopped over on his side.
“Where do cows go on Friday nights?” Ian asks.
August’s already grinning. I get the feeling they’ve been doing this for a while. “Where?”
“To the moo-vies.”
August erupts in fresh laughter, his cheeks pink. “Another!”
Ian seems to think. “What kind of dinosaurs sleep a lot?”
“Dream-o-saurs!” August guesses.
“That’s a good one,” Ian says. “I was thinking of dino-snores!”
Once again, August laughs like this is the best thing in the world, his belly laugh echoing through the yard.
Ian catches me spying on them from the doorway. His expression brightens, his mouth curves upward, and I think my heart performs a complete cartwheel.
Oh hello, sunshine Ian.
“Tess. Welcome home.”
He doesn’t mean it in some fantasy, “Welcome back to our shared home” situation. He’s stating the obvious, that’s all. But the greeting does something funny to me anyway, twining with his smile and August’s giggles to create a warm hug I want to burrow into.
“Mama!” August waves. “Ian’s telling jokes. I told you he was funny. Now tell one for Mama, Ian.”
I join them on the patio and drop into an empty chair at the table.
Ian looks me over like he’s sizing me up, trying to figure out the best joke for me. “How about I help you tell her one?”
August agrees, so Ian leans closer to whisper in his ear. It must be a good one because August starts giggling before he can even repeat it.
“I hope you know CPR.” More giggles. “Because you take my breath away!”
August drops his head to the metal tabletop as if that joke is the height of comedy.
“A little EMT humor?” I ask Ian.
His gaze never leaves me. “Something like that. How was your day?”
“My sense of smell is fried from all the key lime pies we’re making this week, but it’s good.” I smell the same tart scent everywhere I go now. An occupational hazard in my line of work.
“I like lime pie,” August tells me.
I lean closer to run my hand over his pale, soft hair. “You like everything sweet. How was your day here?”
“Great!” he says. “We played games and washed Dutch, and we walked on the trail!”
“You were busy.” I shift my attention to Ian, who hasn’t stopped watching me since he spotted me in the doorway. “How are you holding up? Tired?”
His eyes sparkle at me. “Sounds like you expect me to wave the white flag and surrender already.”
I’m honestly relieved that wasn’t the first thing out of his mouth. Welcome home. I quit. I guess I should have had a little more faith in his dedication to the challenge.
I will not think about him possibly being dedicated to anything else.
“I read somewhere that babysitting kids is twice as hard as climbing mountains,” I tell him.
He narrows his eyes on me, looking as stern as he did the day I first pulled up to this place. It’s messed up that his glower makes my stomach tumble, right? But there it goes, dipping and swooping like a kite caught in a draft.
“Your source is wrong,” he says. “It’s three times as hard.”
He breaks his teasing scowl, but not our eye contact.
“No unexpected questions, I hope?” I’m not prepared to tell August about the birds and the bees tonight. I need some kind of kid-friendly book to help me out, at least.
“Only about my freckles.”
“He said a fairy painted them on him at night when he was a little boy,” August pipes up. “The Freckle Fairy.”
“She ran out of freckle juice when she was done with me.” Ian runs a hand over one freckle-covered arm. From the memory of him shirtless that’s seared on my mind, he’s covered in them. “Had to start painting spots on ladybugs instead.”
“You’re silly.” Judging by his grin, August is a big fan of the sillies. He whips his head around to me. “Mama, can Ian have dinner with us?”
“Ian’s probably tired and needs a break,” I answer before he can turn his request into a whole thing. I don’t want to impose on Ian more than we already have today.
But he glances away, a hint of his genuine scowl returning. I thought I was giving him an easy out, but it doesn’t look like the prospect of being alone appeals to him the same way it once did.
“Unless you want to stay for dinner,” I add. “I’m thinking tacos, nothing special. But you’re welcome to join us. If you want.”
He looks from August, who’s already cheering, to me. “I like tacos.”
To be honest, I cheer a little, too.
We go inside to the soundtrack of August’s shouts of triumph. He opts to stay on the patio to work on his coloring, so I leave the back door open. Dutch shifts positions to follow his sunbeam but doesn’t come inside.
Ian waits for me in the kitchen. “What do you want me to do?”
“You don’t have to help with dinner. You can just sit and relax if you’re tired, and I’ll?—”
He stalks closer to me. “Angel, if you keep accusing me of being tired, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and set you outside with August while I make dinner.”
If I’m a tiny bit frozen and struggling to come up with a response, it’s because this man just called me angel while offering to make dinner for us. Also, he thinks going full pirate and tossing me over his shoulder is a deterrent? It just went onto my top ten romantic fantasies list. Which I created five seconds ago specifically to put that on it.
“I’m tempted,” I finally admit.
“Believe me,” he says, voice low. “I am, too.”
Reluctantly, I break our stare down. We’ll never have dinner if we stand around eyeing each other all night. The monitor and insulin pump make August’s mealtimes easier, but I still like to keep to a routine as much as I can.
“How about you brown the meat?” I grab the ground beef from the fridge, find a pan in the cupboard, and hand Ian a spatula from the container on the counter. “I’ll prep the veggies.”
We work side by side in the kitchen until the air grows heavy with the scent of cooking meat and warm spices. I’ve prepped small bowls filled with lettuce, cheese, and avocado, and laid a platter of sliced fruit on the table. Now and then, his arm brushes mine, but neither of us shifts to give ourselves more space.
“Any progress with your mom and your cake business?”
I keep my eyes trained on the tomatoes I’m chopping. “I’ll keep doing special orders on the side.”
“So nothing’s changing?”
It’s just a statement of fact, not a judgment call, but it still stings like a rebuke. Nothing’s changing could be the title of my autobiography. Just ride out the same old, same old until the end of time.
Am I really willing to accept that?
And how far am I willing to go if I’m not?
“I already owe Mom and Wren so much, I can’t turn around and ask for more. I don’t want to be greedy.”
Mom has carried on like we never had the conversation about expanding Blackbird’s menu to offer my cakes. Wren, of course, brings it up in subtle side-eyes and not-so-subtle remarks at every opportunity. I’m stuck in the middle trying to keep the peace. Mostly with myself.
“Angel, wanting something for yourself doesn’t make you greedy. It makes you human. Pretending that you don’t want it won’t satisfy. Your unhappiness will eat you up.”
“I’m not unhappy making pies and cupcakes.” I remind myself of that every day. I’m lucky to have a good job and a comfortable income. I have a strong support system, and excellent care for August. Not every single parent can say the same.
“Would you be happier making custom cakes?”
That’s the question, isn’t it? “I think so.”
“Then isn’t a little risk worth it?”
“Says someone who has climbed literal mountains.”
“What would it take to start up your own place?” he asks.
“My own bakery?” I have thought about it, even if I don’t like to share as much with Wren. But knowing doesn’t make anything easier. “I’d need premises in a decent location, and those aren’t cheap, even here. Best case scenario, it’s already set up with industrial appliances, worst case, I have to buy all that. It could be anywhere from twenty-five to fifty thousand dollars.”
That number alone sends a chill through me. Leaving Mom and Wren to go out on my own, putting August’s future on the line, all for my own hopes and dreams? That’s ice water in my veins.
“So either I get Mom on board one day, or I stop dreaming about a custom cake shop.” My laugh sounds awfully fake.
“What if you had an investor?”
“I don’t know anyone that irresponsible with their money.” I have some savings, but not nearly the amount it would take to get an entire bakery off the ground. And I could never throw it all into a business anyway. Rainy day funds are for emergencies, not fantasies.
“You’re not a bad investment, angel,” he says softly.
As intensely as he’s watching me, I don’t think he’s only talking about my business. It’s hard to believe someone could see me like that when I literally had a man run away from commitment with me. But Ian’s not running. He’s being patient, letting me inch closer to him.
Honestly, that makes me nervous, too.
“I don’t know if I’m ready,” I finally say. I don’t think I’m only talking about my business, either.
“You’ll know what to do when you are.”
Right. Take a little risk. Not my strong suit on any front.
“I got some good news today,” he says after a minute. “I’m an uncle.”
I lay down my knife on the cutting board. “For the first time?”
He nods, turns off the burner under the seasoned meat, and pulls his phone from his pocket. Swiping it open, he turns it toward me, revealing a small pink bundle, eyes shut tight, the fingers of one little hand splayed across their face.
“Ophelia James. My oldest brother, Pierce, is out of his head with happiness.” Glancing at the picture, his expression softens before he tucks his phone away again.
“That’s a lot of hair. August was a little cueball.”
He chuckles. “They’re trying to contain their disappointment she didn’t inherit our red hair.”
Oh, no. I can’t start imagining sweet little redheaded babies. I’ll want to do a whole lot more than inch toward him if I get that idea stuck in my brain.
“She’s beautiful,” I tell him.
“I should probably send a gift, right? I don’t know what’s appropriate for a newborn.”
“You’ve never had a friend have a baby before?”
“I’m not sure any of my friends are ready for that.” He catches my incredulous stare. “What?”
“You’re almost forty.”
His mouth thins. “I’m thirty-six, angel.”
Loving this new nickname.
“And your brother is…?”
He seems to concede the point. “Forty-five. But he’s not an irresponsible playboy or anything like that. He was preoccupied with our business before Bonnie came along and changed his priorities.”
A braver woman would dive in and ask what Ian’s priorities are. But I’m skilled at keeping my feet on dry land. “If you need help with baby presents, I have some suggestions of places to shop in town.”
“I welcome any and all suggestions.”
“ The Painted Daisy would be my first stop. It’s the gift shop right next door to the bakery. My friend, Hope, sells all sorts of handmade things there. She usually has a good selection of baby stuff.”
“Baby stuff like…?”
I can tell his mind is spinning with everything from diapers to pacifiers. It’s kind of cute that he has no clue. He wants to learn, at least.
I rest my hand on his warm, delightfully firm shoulder. “How about I help you pick some things out one day this week?”
He breathes a sigh of relief. “This is why you’re an angel.”
If he keeps calling me that, I might not be for long.