“A grapevine named Mary Beth Goheen?” I ask.

Mom laughs.

“What did she say?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she says too breezily.

I lower my chin and give her a look.

She waves a hand through the air and turns toward the sink. “Oh, she didn’t say much. Just that you two looked pretty comfy with one another.”

“I told you that I knew Palmer.”

She hums, the tune painting a picture that she has her mind made up about whatever Mary Beth said.

“Her son plays on my team—which you already knew,” I say. “So don’t start humming at me.”

She spins on her heel. The apples of her cheeks are pink and bunched up just beneath her eyes as she smiles.

“Don’t . . .” I shake a finger at her. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what, Cole?”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Oh. I thought you meant not to presume that you had a thing for Miss Palmer. Because Mary Beth sure thought Palmer had a thing for you.”

I wish. Especially now that I’ll be in town for more than a few days.

I could have weeks with the presence of pretty Palmer Clark.

If she’d only say yes to me.

It requires a mental war with myself not to replay Palmer’s innuendos. They’re right there on the tip of my brain, but I will myself to keep them just out of reach. I don’t want a chub in front of my mother.

“You can rest assured that if Palmer had a thing for me, I’d tell you,” I say. “I’ve asked her to dinner more than once, and she’s turned me down every time.”

Mom’s jaw drops.

“I know. I’m shocked too.”

She rolls her eyes. “I think you’re perfect, but that doesn’t mean every woman will.”

“Right. Because there’s one holdout, and her name is Palmer Clark.”

This should, by all accounts, discourage my mother. But it does not. Instead, her eyes light up as if I’ve just set a gift in her lap and told her to open it.

“Did you . . . you know, hear what I just said?” I ask. “Or do you need hearing aids?”

“Heavens, no. I don’t need them. Your father, on the other hand . . .”

“Good. Because I don’t want you thinking—”

“That Palmer likes you.” She smiles from ear to ear. “Got it.”

I look at her warily. “It doesn’t seem like you got it.”

“Oh, I do. And I know there’s no way that Palmer doesn’t think you’re handsome.”

“Clearly not.” I snort. “I didn’t say that. She’s not blind.”

Mom laughs. “Should I ask her to dinner?”

A heavy dose of dread begins to sink in my stomach. “Mom, no.”

“What about if I say I’m your baseball helper and I pretend to twist an ankle? I could—”

“Mom.” I laugh, more out of disbelief than amusement. I am not a gangly teenager here. I do not need my mom’s help with women. “What are you doing right now?”