30. Marcus #3
“Sure did. Turns out that boy was Preston? What a small world.”
So I even told my mom I’d marry him. Talk about ambition.
My thoughts scatter as movement comes from behind me. When I tilt my head back, Preston’s standing at the doorway—awkwardly, I might add—all his dashing arrogance replaced by an unsure stance.
He looks absolutely gorgeous with his hair falling over his forehead. “Hi, I mean…morning, ma’am.”
God. He sounds so out of his element; I want to kiss him.
Mom abandons her cup of coffee on the counter and slides to his side with a wide smile. “June is totally fine. Don’t ma’am me. It makes me feel old.”
“You are old, Mom,” I say.
“You shut up.” She gives me a look, then guides Preston to the table.
“You’re not old,” Preston says in his familiar cordial tone. “You look like Marcus’s sister.”
“I know, right?” She hits his shoulder. “I get that a lot.”
“No, you don’t,” I say, flipping the omelet, catching Preston’s attention as he stares at me with that heated expression.
“I’m going to smack you.” Mom levels me with another glare, then smiles at Preston. “Make yourself comfortable, hon. How would you like your coffee?”
“Black is fine,” he says.
“Right away.” Mom goes to the espresso machine that she demanded for Mother’s Day. From my dad.
“What?” she told him on the phone. “You can’t afford a fancy machine for the mother of your son?”
Naturally, he sent an expensive gadget that took me an hour to set up.
I put the omelet on a plate and slide it in front of Preston. “I thought you preferred your double or triple-shot espresso lattes?”
“How do you even…” He trails off, then mouths, “Stalker.”
I smirk as I sit across from him.
Soon after, Mom brings his coffee. “Here. You sure you don’t want any milk?”
“Just a bit,” Preston says with a little smile.
“All right.” She brings the bottle of milk and hands him another cup so he can mix them up. This one has “Best Mom Ever” written on it. Yes, she loves her mugs, and yes, I’m the one who got her that one over ten years ago.
Preston stares at it for a beat before pouring some of his black coffee into it, then adding the milk to his existing cup.
“How about my coffee?” I ask Mom as she slides another chair to the table.
She tilts her head in my direction. “Show me your hands.”
When I do so, confused as to why, she nods. “They look functional. Go make your own.”
Preston bursts out laughing, then holds up a hand. “I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” I grumble.
And he just laughs again with Mom. “You’re so funny, June.”
“I am.” She shakes her head, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “My son doesn’t take after me, unfortunately.”
“Yeah, he’s too serious sometimes,” Preston agrees.
“And a killjoy,” Mom says.
“I’m right over here in case no one noticed,” I say.
“Shush.” She hits my shoulder teasingly. “I’ve been asking him to bring anyone who’s special over, but he never has. Said there was no one he feels the need to introduce me to.”
Preston’s lips part. “No one?”
“No. He’s so uncooperative, no?”
“I guess.”
“Well, no one until you, that is.”
A pink hue rises up his neck as he clears his throat. “I’m glad I got the chance to meet you.”
“Me too. You seem like such a fun guy, Preston. Why would you even be with this grump?”
I’m a grump? It’s the other way around, Mom.
“I’m not with…” He trails off, then swallows thickly. “I guess…it just happened. He wouldn’t leave me alone.”
“Aw, he’s very goal-oriented like that.” She grins, but Preston’s little dimpled smile falls.
I narrow my eyes, but he soon changes the subject, talking to Mom about everything and nothing.
They get along—of course they do. Both of them can be staggeringly unserious. I get the brunt of it as they gang up against me, but it’s fine.
Because I’ve never seen Preston like this before, so playful and affectionate and…just raw. It reminds me of the first time I saw him in Dad’s garden.
Before he became who he is today.
As Mom goes to grab the blanket she’s been crocheting to show Preston, he glares at me.
“What?” I say after I swallow a mouthful of the omelet. Preston has downright devoured his.
“I hate you,” he grumbles, then takes a sip of his coffee.
“Where did that come from?”
“Why do you get a perfect mother?”
“Have you seen her? She’s loudmouthed and has zero filter.”
“She’s perfect.”
“She’s not here. You can tell the truth.”
“She is.” He stares at his coffee. “I bet she would’ve protected you when you couldn’t protect yourself.”
“Hey…” I reach out a hand and cover his because his eyes have this unnatural shine that messes with my head.
He doesn’t look at me, just keeps staring at his coffee, his fingers shivering beneath mine. “She would’ve probably figured out something was wrong way before anything even happened.”
“Preston…look at me.”
He does, slowly, as if he doesn’t want me to see.
But I do.
And the spooked, blanched expression he’s wearing stabs me in the chest. “My mom didn’t. She couldn’t protect me. And when she finally did, it was already too late.”
“Too late for what?”
A sad, heart-wrenching smile paints his lips. “Everything.”