“So,” he jutted his chin at me, “who are you?”
“Hey, hi, uh, sorry. I’m Harlan. Her . . . her student.”
Liam’s face relaxed. “Oh, snap, Harlan Royce? That’s what you look like without all the gear?”
“Yep. That’s,” I awkwardly saluted, “me.”
“God, Mom told me she was training you, but I thought she was full of shit.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Liam. Her son. Really cool to meet you, man.”
Herson? Emma had a kid? Not just a kid, but a kid who could pass for an adult? A young one, but an adult no less. How old did that make Emma? I assumed she was somewhere in her early thirties, but if Liam was anywhere above fifteen, she’d have to have been a teen mom.
How did I not know that someone I saw every time the team was home was a mom?
Maybe the guys were right. Maybe I’d spent so much time bugging her that I never took the time to get to know her. Really know her. A pang of regret twisted my stomach, but I had to remember that she’d invited me here.
With a strip of kitchen tape but whatever.
I shifted the knife roll to my left hand to shake Liam’s right one and leaned forward.
"Come in, Mom and I were just having a soak.”
"Oh, I'm just dropping off her knives. She left them at my place." What he said took hold in my head. "Wait, a soak?"
"Yeah. She got us a hot tub all of a sudden."
I fought a laugh. "Oh. Cool."
She wouldn't even tell her son that I got her the hot tub. Was Emma embarrassed of me? Whatever. I was going in. Liam beckoned me into the house and I wiped my feet on the porch mat. "Shoes off?"
"Oh, yeah. Mom hates when people leave shoes on."
I toed out of my shoes and took in my surroundings, the way her house smelled like a woodsier, spicier version of her scent that drove me crazy.
Timidly, I followed Liam through the small Cape Cod-style house into a clean, bright kitchen. It wasn't overly fancy, but the appliances were nice and polished to gleaming. Pans hung over the island and I noticed an immaculately organized pantry off the kitchen. Everything was simple, but nice. Well-appointed. No crazy gadgets. A Moka press for coffee. A mix of cast iron and stainless steel hanging over the island, but not a ton of pan sizes. A wok. A big soup pot.
A couple of stuffed garbage bags sat next to the kitchen island, and a mostly-demolished cake sat on the counter. Balloons were tied to a chair at the eat-in kitchen, and a little pile of spent lottery tickets sat on the table. This felt like party aftermath.
“Somebody’s birthday?” I asked.
“Yeah, mine. Eighteen,” Liam said with a flare of his hands.
“Aw, cool. Happy birthday, man.”
“Thanks. Um, do you . . . want some cake?” he asked, picking up the knife.
Yellow cake, chocolate icing, some sprinkles pouring from the center of the cake. Three layers, homemade. One of those surprise cakes. “Yeah, I’ll take a piece.”
I set Emma’s knife roll on the counter and grabbed a paper plate while Liam cut me a slice of his cake. Then he beckoned me toward a set of French doors.
“Mom, guess who it is?”
There was Emma, in the hot tub she said she wasn’t using. But I wasn’t bothered by the fact that she’d been fibbing. I was taken aback byher.
Emma sat with her arms extended along the hot tub’s rim, her eyes serenely closed and head back. She was more relaxed than I’d ever seen her. I didn’t take enough chances to just look at her, toseeher. Only on the day of the accident. But, god, like this, I felt like getting on my hands and knees and barking.
I couldn’t tell if it was an illusion from the water, but it looked like her bikini was tiny, the triangles of fabric accentuating the delicious inner curve of her breasts. Blood rushed to all the fun places in my body, but the one that really got me was the way my heart started to pound. I schooled my face into my usual smirk, going for entertained rather than horny.
Emma chuckled, sounding exhausted. “Did somebody actually order you a stripper?”