Mr. Masters (Mr. 1)

“She even ran Dad over in a golf cart,” Sammy blurts out.

“Dear, God.” She puts her hand to her chest. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Willow answers. “He sulked all night over it.”

Frances laughs, and I get the feeling that I’m going to like this woman.

“We’re practicing making fresh pasta so that Willow can cook dinner for her father on Sunday night,” I say.

“Really?” She looks between the two of us, impressed.

“You should come over,” I say. “The more the merrier. Willow is a fantastic cook.”

“I haven’t cooked anything yet,” Willow interrupts.

“I know, but you’re going to be a fantastic cook when I finish with you.”

Frances beams. “Thank you for the invitation. I’d be delighted.”

She looks back at the door. “Don’t let me hold up your fun. I’ll get going.”

We all follow her and she turns back. “What time is dinner on Sunday night, Will?”

Willow looks to me for guidance.

“What time, pumpkin?” I whisper. “You pick.”

“About six?” Willow shrugs.

Frances smiles and rubs her arm. “Lovely, see you at six, darling.” She walks out the door and calls over her shoulder. “Have fun. I wouldn’t want to be the one cleaning that floor.”

We all scowl at the thought of having to do it ourselves.

“Let’s just clean up first and we can start again.” I sigh.

With a roll of their eyes, they both follow me back to the battle zone.

This place is trashed.

It’s now 11:00 p.m. and I’m back in bed, reading. The room is dark, lit only by my bedside lamp. I didn’t hear from Mr. Masters today but I know he called the children. I heard him on the phone to Willow earlier. Part of me is a little disappointed he didn’t call me. God knows why. I blow out a deep breath and shuffle around on the bed, annoyed at myself.

I turn the page a little too aggressively and continue reading.

My phone dances across my side table, the name Mr. Masters lighting up the screen.

My heart instantly races.

It’s him.

Act casual, I remind myself.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Bree,” he purrs.

Bree, holy shit!

This is a personal call.