“Grandson? Hah! If only my only son thought highly enough of me to give me one. That’s a laugh.”
“I’m serious. His name is Preston. He’s six years old. I’ve only just found out about him. He looks just like Frankie.”
Silence.
Followed by an intense wailing from the Sheffield end of the line.
When Bev Merryweather had composed herself enough to speak, she had a million questions for Mick.
He assured her that everything was as he suggested, and that he looked forward to seeing her.
Bev couldn’t get off the phone quickly enough. She had a hair appointment to make and a trip to the department store downtown to make, to buy a new outfit. It’s not every day one becomes a grandmother, and any grandmother worth her salt should look her best for the occasion. Especially one acquainted with the Queen herself.
Chapter 18
After a drive through the winding road of the desert and out toward the mountains, Mick decided he was all in. The euphoria of being with Ayla had started to fade, allowing his logical brain to take control again, but nothing had changed. He was a father, and he intended to dive into the deep end, just as soon as Ayla would let him.
To show he was serious, Mick took a trip to the bank. Preston was six, and Mick’s involvement had been zero.
What was a year worth, monetarily? A month? A missed birthday? Christmas? He knew Ayla struggled, he could scarcely believe it when she described her daily schedule to him. He’d been trained to perform on little-to-no sleep, but she took things to another level altogether.
She worked herself to the bone to provide for her son, and he owed. He knew he did.
Mick lived a mostly Spartan lifestyle. His car and condo were perks of a job for which he was already extremely well-compensated. He’d invested money earned in his previous careers well, and there’d been insurance settlements when both his brother and father passed away.
He was left sitting on a small fortune.
Mick left the bank with an envelope containing a cashier’s check he intended to give to Ayla the next time they were face to face.
He knew she was at work, but he sent her a text anyway, figuring she’d get it when she took her break.
“I can’t begin to describe how difficult it was to take you home this morning. Wish I could spend the day with you.”
Ayla received the text sitting on her sofa staring at, but not really watching, The Real Housewives of Somewhere-She-Didn’t- Give-a-Shit-About.
When she’d gotten upset after leaving work, she’d wanted to run straight to Mick. Back into his arms. He’d make her feel safe, let her know everything would be okay.
But the last thing she wanted to do was dump her crazy into his lap. She worried so much about scaring him away, making him reconsider getting involved with the mixed-up, surviving-on-a-shoestring life she’d created for herself and Preston.
She wanted to at least appear to sort of, kind of have things under control. A little bit.
So, Ayla drove home, found half a pint of Ben and Jerry’s chocolate chip she’d bought on sale, and she moped on her couch and tried to come up with a game plan to pay the rent once she received her final check and the payout for the week of vacation she had left.
She’d resisted becoming a driver for NPE, despite the money being good, since the hours were long and unpredictable. She couldn’t bear the thought of Preston waking up in the morning to a babysitter and going to bed at night with Desiree, while she was out delivering packages.
She stared at Mick’s text and wondered how to reply.
He beat her to it.
“Good news, Mum will be here the day after tomorrow. Had to tell her about Preston to get her to agree to it.”
Ayla’s mind raced. Her obsession with Mick was overwhelming, but she had to proceed cautiously with Preston. He was at a fragile age and the last thing she wanted was to mess him up.
Her phone buzzed again.
“There’s something I need to give you. Can we have dinner tonight? Maybe with Preston? You can just tell him I’m a friend. Let me know.”
Ayla couldn’t stand it any longer. She replied.