I did not need him talking nasty prior to me meeting his son and therefore hissed, “Tate!”
He grinned, slung an arm around my shoulders and propelled me to the door. “Come meet Jonas.”
It was the time of judgment, I couldn’t delay and I couldn’t run so I wrapped my arm around his waist and let Tate take me to his son.
He was standing, shoulders leaned against the passenger side of the Explorer, a video game in his hands, his dark head bent to it.
“Good news, Bub,” Tate called, “Lauren’s got the rest of the day off.”
That was when his head came up and my step stuttered.
He was the spitting image of Tate. There wasn’t a hint of Neeta to be found. He was the most beautiful child I’d ever seen in my life.
Then he smiled at me and my heart turned over.
“Hey Lauren,” he said.
“Um… hi Jonas,” I replied and Tate stopped me in front of his son.
“Dad said you made me a cake,” he told me.
“Red cake, white frosting,” I replied and his head tipped to the side.
“Red cake?” he asked.
“Um… it’s really chocolate but I dye it red. I don’t know why, it’s just, that’s what the recipe says so that’s what I do.”
“It got Moist Factor Five Hundred?” he asked and I knew they’d been talking about me, more than a little, more than likely a lot.
My heart started beating very fast and very hard.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Dad said that’s the bomb,” Jonas informed me.
“The, um… master of Moist Factor Five Hundred works over there,” I pointed to La-La Land, “at the coffee shop. He shared the secret of his success with me.”
Jonas took a step forward and twisted his torso to see beyond the truck to where I was pointing. Then he straightened and looked back at me.
“Cool,” he replied.
“Yeah, um… cool,” I reiterated.
He grinned.
My heart turned over again.
“You look just like your Dad,” I whispered and his back went straighter, giving him at least another inch.
“Be just like him, when I grow up,” he stated proudly.
“A football star?” I asked.
“Nah, a bounty hunter,” he told me.
“They carry guns and hunt dangerous fugitives,” I informed him something he probably knew and I probably shouldn’t remind him therefore I clamped my mouth shut after speaking.
“Yeah, why you think I wanna be like my Dad?” Jonas asked.
“Perhaps you can consider alternate future employment,” I suggested, “maybe an accountant.”
Father and son burst out laughing.
I looked up at Tate. “I wasn’t being funny.”
“I know, babe,” he replied, still chuckling. “That’s why it was hilarious.”
I looked back to Jonas and stated somewhat haughtily, “An accountant would not make his girlfriend worry while he was away at work.”
“Yeah,” Jonas shot back with a smile, “but he also wouldn’t have a milf girlfriend either.”
I felt my eyes round as Tate said in a father’s warning tone but still I could tell from his voice he was smiling huge, “Bub.”
“Dad, seriously, she’s milf,” Jonas returned.
“Think it, boy, don’t say it,” Tate replied.
“Right,” Jonas muttered but he was still smiling at me and his smile was unrepentant.
Jonas had called me a milf. I knew what that meant and I didn’t know what to do with it.
Seriously, Tate from head to toe.
“I think I need a latte. Does anyone need a latte?” I asked then didn’t wait for them to answer. “No? Okay, you boys go on and do father and son stuff, toss a baseball, build a barn, whatever. I’ll get a latte and meet you home for dinner.”
Jonas looked at Tate. “They have smoothies?”
“We’ll find out,” Tate answered and my eyes darted to him because he was moving me toward the sidewalk and, I knew, La-La Land.
Jonas fell in step beside me.
Not Tate.
Me.
I looked down at him and I knew in a couple of years if I was still around I wouldn’t be looking down anymore.
“Are you tall for your age?” I asked.
“Yep,” he replied.
“Tallest kid in his class,” Tate put in.
“Do you play sports?” I asked Jonas.
“Yep,” he answered then he observed, “You’re tall. Did you?”
“I was a cheerleader,” I shared and both father and son laughed again. “What’s funny?” I asked into their laughter.
“Milf,” Jonas said under his breath and Tate chuckled anew.
“Cheerleading is considered a sport,” I informed them snootily.
“You flip around in a short skirt with your panties showing,” Jonas informed me back.
My eyes narrowed on his grinning face. “How old are you again?”
“Ten,” he answered.
“You act fifteen.”
“Thanks,” he replied.
“That wasn’t a compliment,” I explained and his smile got broader telling me he took it as one anyway.