She shrugged. “Yes, actually, I do. My husband died of a heart attack, leaving me a widow at forty-three. One of the things I’ve learned is that life is far too short to waste it on small talk.” Her smile was sad, but bright. “So, I ask about the things I want to know, when I want to know them. You don’t have to answer, but I’m not going to feel bad about asking.”
“Makes sense.” I tap my bad leg with my cane. “Car accident.” I tap my chest, over my heart. “Bad luck, bad choices, and bad people.” I tilt my head to one side. “Although, I guess you could argue those are all one and the same.”
She tucked her clipboard under her arm and rummaged in her purse, found her keys, unlocking a new red Canyon pickup. “So. Where do you live?”
I dig in the hip pocket of my jeans, pull out my keys, and pretended to blip an imaginary key—Olivia looked around, confused, and I laughed, pointing across the street with the key—which was just a regular old house key. “Over there.”I gestured. “I live in that apartment building across the street.”
She laughed, and my belly flipped and my skin tightened. “Let me put my stuff in my truck and I’ll walk over with you.” She hesitated. “Unless you’d rather a ride over? Save your leg?”
I waved a hand. “I need the exercise anyway. Both my leg and my…well, everything.”
Truth was, I’d much rather have gotten a ride, but I was too stubborn and prideful to say so. Pretty women do that to a man. Make you do shit and say shit you got no call doing and saying. Like pretending you might be somebody you ain’t.
But there’s a sexy lady in the picture, so I’m pretending I’m a solid guy, and that my life hasn’t been one colossal fuck-up.
Olivia sets her stuff in her truck, keeping her clipboard under one arm, and then she moves to stand next to me, smiling in anticipation. "Shall we head over?” Her voice was bright and eager and warm.
I extend my elbow to her, offering her my arm, acting as if I’ve been anything even close to resembling a chivalrous man. I barely have decent table manners, much less the gentlemanly bullshit you see on TV.
Yet, here I am pretending. How long can I keep this up? The better question might be, how long will she buy it?
She took my elbow, tucking her warm tiny palm against my thick burly arm. Well—an arm that used to be thick and burly, but was now as much flab as muscle. Still, as far as arms go, it ain’t a small one, and her hand is warm and soft, curled against my bicep like it belonged there.
I do my best to keep my limp to a minimum as we cross the street, but I had to lean pretty heavily on the damn cane. The doc said the limp was temporary, and as long as I exercised it regularly and built the muscle back up, I would make a full recovery.
“So. Triplets.” Olivia’s sideways glance at me was inquisitive.
I nodded. “Yes ma’am. They’re thirty—uhh, two? Thirty-two.” I palmed the back of my neck in embarrassment. “Hard to remember, sometimes.”
She squeezed my arm. “Don’t feel bad. I have five daughters, and if someone asks how old they are, I have to stop and think about it.”
I blinked at her. “Five daughters?”
She nods. “Five girls. Well…women, now. They are…” She laughs. “See? I have to think about it. Charlie is twenty-four, Cassie is twenty-two, Lexie is twenty-one, Torie is nineteen, and Poppy is eighteen.”
I made a scoffing noise of amazed disbelief. “Damn, girl. Five kids, none of ’em multiples?”
She laughed. “Yeah. Darren and I were…busy.”
I guffawed at that. “Yeah, clearly.”
She blushed and bumped into me. “Not like that, you pervert.”
I snickered. “I ain’t the one with five girls in less than what, six years?”
“Are you trying to shame me?” she asked, but the smirk on her face told me she wasn’t upset.
“Yep. You’ve had a lot of kids.” I paused at the door to my building. “Charlie, Cassie, Lexie, Torie, and Poppy?”
“Charlotte, Cassandra, Alexandra, Victoria, and Poppy, which isn’t short for anything—my husband’s mother’s favorite flower was a poppy. She had only months to live when I was pregnant with Poppy, and she made me promise to name the baby Poppy, if it was a girl.” I held the door to the apartment building open for her and she stepped inside, turning back to wait for me to continue leading the way to my apartment. “Your boys’ names?”
“Roman, Remington, and Ramsey.” I rolled a shoulder. “I just thought they were cool sounding names.”
“What did your wife think?”
I sighed. “No wife. Never married. Their mother…I think she was in too much shock about having triplets to care about names.”
She frowned at me. “Shock I can understand, but not shock to the point that I wouldn’t care what my newborn triplets were named.”
