“So, the deal is…”
“What?” She glanced up into his eyes. “Deal?”
Was that her voice? All whispery and Marilyn Monroeish?
He smiled again, a slow, devastating grin, and for the first time she noticed a tiny dimple near the corner of his mouth. His eyes glittered like liquid glass. “You got a grill?”
“You mean a barbecue?” she asked firmly. Good, Marilyn had left the building.
At his nod, she answered, “Yes.”
“Great. Your son and I will provide the fish for dinner, you look after the fixings.”
She opened her mouth, an automatic protest riding her tongue, but instead of making up some excuse, as she should have, Maggie found herself agreeing. “All right.”
Cain paused, and she thought that maybe he was surprised. “Okay.” He glanced toward his truck. “I should go.” He took a step back and shrugged, his even, white teeth a flash in the dark. “Michael’s waiting, but, uh, I’ll see you later.”
Maggie closed the door and leaned against it, her hand on her heart as she settled her nerves. She watched the beams of light from his truck creep across her walls as Cain reversed out of the driveway and headed toward the lake. She stared at Michael’s Chicago Blackhawks cap. It lay on the floor. She picked it up, fingered the logo, and held it close to her chest before heading toward his room.
She’d just agreed to dinner with Cain. What the hell was up with that? A smile touched her lips, and her steps were light as she headed toward Michael’s room. She wouldn’t think about it. Wouldn’t overanalyze what it meant, because it meant nothing.
It was just dinner, a special thank-you for taking Michael fishing.
Maggie disappeared into her son’s room. It was time to make beds and get ready for her day.
***
On Wednesdays Maggie only had one client, Mr. Jackson, an elderly widower who lived on her street. He was a sweet man, and she knew he looked forward to her visits not only because he needed his house cleaned, but because he was lonely. His only child, a son, lived in the city, well over two hours away, and he no longer drove beyond Crystal Lake’s town limits.
Mr. Jackson was a weekly client, so the house was kept up—an easy clean—but she still spent longer than necessary with him. He followed her around and chatted, and truth be told, Maggie enjoyed his company as much as he did hers. He regaled her with stories from his past, a time when he’d grown up on a large farm near the Canadian border. He was funny, witty, and a total charmer.
It was nearly one thirty when she finished, but Maggie still had time to run a few errands and be home before three o’clock. She’d decided a fresh garden salad would be perfect with whatever kind of fish the boys brought home for supper and at the last minute decided to make sweet potato pie—Michael’s favorite.
By the time the fresh vegetables were washed and prepped and dessert was cooling from the oven, it was nearly five thirty. Maggie glanced out the window. Did she chance a shower?
A quick sniff under her arms had her shuddering. Hell yes.
Maggie crossed to the door and stared at the dead bolts for a few seconds before peeking outside. Her neighbor Luke was on his front lawn, cell phone in his hand and his dog running madly around him. Sounds of children playing down the street could be heard.
She hesitated. Bit her lip. Then quickly released all the dead bolts and unlocked the door. Michael had left without his key, and she didn’t want him waiting on the porch if they returned while she was in the shower.
Maggie slipped into her room, where she spent an extra five minutes trying to decide what to wear. In the end, she pulled a pair of black three-quarter-length capris and a moss-green tank top from her closet, tossed them onto the bed, and hopped into the shower.
It was the fastest shower she’d ever had. For one thing, she hated that the front door was unlocked, and for another, images of Cain bursting into her room and finding her alone in the shower kept flashing through her brain.
Of course that would never happen, but still, the thought was enough to get her butt out in record time.
She dressed, combed out her long hair, and searched the top of her dresser for some mascara. She seemed to remember a tube lying around. She found it, had trouble unscrewing it, and when she pulled out the wand, she made a face and tossed the entire thing into the garbage. It was like cement. It had been that long since she made any kind of effort with her appearance.
Whatever. She was being silly anyway. She wasn’t out to impress Cain Black.
Maggie busied herself in the kitchen, and it was approaching six thirty when she heard the sound of a motor in the driveway. She smoothed her hair, slowed her steps—didn’t want to appear too anxious—and opened the door. Cain stood at the foot of her porch, Michael’s wild curls nestled in the crook of his arm.
Her son looked like an angel—an exhausted one, for sure. His small chest rose and fell as he slumbered.
She moved aside and let them pass. Cain’s hair was nearly as wild as her son’s, and a smile tugged at her mouth as she closed the door behind them.
“He fell asleep on the boat,” Cain whispered softly. “He didn’t move at all on the ride home.”