I smile at her.

“Even if you have all that money and expect me to cook every night,” she teases.

“Fine. We’re eating out every other night I’m here.”

“No, we are not.”

I laugh. “Yes, we are. I’m hiring a catering company now. Do you want Thai tomorrow night? Or seafood, maybe. Dad loves seafood. I’ll have some lobster flown in from Maine. Fuck it.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“You want to get mouthy with me, I’ll put my money where my mouth is. What about you? Can you take the heat?”

She swats my shoulder.

I laugh again. “Keep it up, and I’ll tell Mary Beth Goheen you buy your gooseberries from the Amish.”

She gasps. “You wouldn’t.”

“You’re right.” I grin. “I wouldn’t.”

She leans her head against my biceps. “And you wouldn’t forget that you can talk to me about anything in the world, right?”

I lean my head on top of hers and sigh.

Someday, Mom. Someday.

“I know,” I say.

She sighs too. “Good.” Her head pops up and she smiles. “Now, let’s figure out how we’re going to fix you up with Palmer.”

I lift my chin to the ceiling and groan. “Mom.”

“So the fake injury is out, but what about a picnic at the park . . .”

Her voice trails off as I walk out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

Maybe I should use some of that money in the bank to get a hotel room.

CHAPTER TWELVE

PALMER

How can I have two hundred channels and not be able to find one thing to watch?” I mumble.

I flip through the selections once again, scrolling the entire list of movies, shows, and sports programs before giving up.

It’s probably not the menu of choices that’s the problem. I’ll bet that it’s more likely a mix of exhaustion from a day of walking all over Skoolie’s yard, avoiding Burt like it’s my actual job, and mentally avoiding all thoughts of my son’s baseball coach.

Why?

According to the chatter behind the bleachers after practice, having Cole coach the twelve-year-old team is basically a gift from heaven. The Blanket Brigade, the nickname I’ve given the six moms who have formed a Cole Beck fan club, has decided that this is the best thing to ever happen to Bloomfield. And it might be the best thing that has ever happened to them, too, if they play their cards right—or so they imply.

“Which is fine with me,” I say to the dark room.

The only light in the living room comes from the television. It’s not that bright since I left it on the menu and not an actual show. I yawn, my eyes watering as I stretch and feel a pull in my tight muscles, and I know I should just go to bed. But if I do, I’ll just lie there awake. There’s nothing worse than lying in bed with your eyes open.

I might as well stay out here.