I take a deep breath and smile, fighting the melancholy I feel. “And yes, Blake set all of this up, every single thing,” I admit. “But Connor, I want to help you.”

He moves his eyes to the floor and swallows before quietly saying, “Thank you.”

Deciding it’s time to move on from the heavy, I change the subject. “I appreciate you working on the car for me, Connor. I’ll probably head to the store before you get started on it and before it gets too warm. Any special requests?”

“What’s your favorite meal?”

“Mine?” I question, surprised, as I slide a plate into the cabinet next to me.

“Yes. Yours. I’d like to cook dinner for you. Part of a huge thank you that I owe you.” I can’t help smiling even though he’s not looking at me. “I’ll cook for you Tuesday night if that works for you.”

“That would be nice.” And it would be. I can’t remember the last time someone cooked a meal for me. “My favorite meal, hmm . . . let’s see. Roasted duck with plum sauce.” Connor freezes and turns his head to me, his mouth twisted to the side. I try to fight it, but my laughter bubbles up and bursts from my mouth. “Spaghetti,” I chuckle as I toss the dishtowel at him. “I absolutely love spaghetti.”

He lets out a huge sigh of relief and a smile spreads across his face. “Thank goodness.” His hand rubs his head. “I was going to be in deep shit if I had to make roasted duck.”

“Your face was priceless,” I laugh again, heat blanketing my face as I do.

“What in the hell is plum sauce?” he questions as he shakes his head.

“I have no idea. It sounds disgusting.”

“Dinner tomorrow night then?” he chuckles, and I can’t help but notice how deep and real it sounds. He heads for the backdoor and stops, waiting for my confirmation.

“Sounds good.”

“Your sister says he’s covered head to toe in tattoos!” My mother practically shrieks at me.

I grit my teeth, threatening Lexi’s life in my head. No doubt she called my mother immediately after she left my house this morning, foaming at the mouth to tell her about Connor. Now, Gladys will be distracted with me and stop lecturing Lexi on what happens to loose women. FYI: they grow old, and their vaginas get saggy—according to Gladys. My mother, the wisest woman in all the land.

Holding my cell phone between my shoulder and ear as I push the grocery cart through the store, I reach up and grab two cans of spaghetti sauce. “Mom, you have to calm down. Yes, Connor was in prison, but he was Blake’s cousin. Do you really think Blake would do anything to put me in danger?”

“You didn’t have to move him in with you,” she argues, not answering my question.

“He’s not living with me. He lives in the apartment over the garage.”

“Do not give him a key to your house.”

“Mom, drop it,” I warn, having lost my patience. “You haven’t met him. You have no idea who he is.”

“And neither do you.”

On that point, I can’t argue. And if I’m honest with myself, the same stereotypes about felons still cross my mind even though Connor seems to be different. I never got explicit details from Blake about who Connor hurt or why. I asked once or twice, but Blake would always divert and change the subject. I summed it up as he was afraid I would think less of Connor if I knew, so I stopped asking. Be that as it may while my mother’s fear mongering rattles in my brain, something inside me, somewhere deep where that gut feeling takes over, is telling me that Connor is so much more than anyone could ever assume.

“I gotta go. Bye, Mom.” I hang up quickly and toss the phone in my purse. My mother is as uptight as they come. She’s your classic overbearing, anal-retentive, know it all. Clenching my eyes closed, I raise my head and say softly in front standing in the middle of the bread aisle, “Lord, please grant me the strength I need to be patient with my mother and not kill her.”

“Peace be with you, child,” a deep voice answers and I stumble back as my eyes fly open. A tall man with shaggy hair and blue eyes stares back at me as he grins. He’s very broad, and the sleeves of his dirty T-shirt hug his large biceps.

“I’m sorry,” he chuckles. “I heard you praying, and I couldn’t help myself.”

Something about his laugh is infectious, and I join him. My face must reflect my surprise and complete embarrassment. “You must think I’m insane?”

“No. I empathize.”

“You have a bat-shit crazy mother, too?” I question.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he replies in a serious tone. “You know, they have a support group that meets every Wednesday down at Church of the Ascendants. The group’s called Children of Meddling Mothers.”

I stare at him blankly. Is he serious? I wait a moment before responding, thinking he’ll laugh or say ‘just kidding,’ but he just stares back at me. Shit. He is serious. “Do you go to these meetings?”

His features lift and a huge grin spreads across his face. “I love that you just believed me.”

And my face grows two thousand degrees hotter. I shake my head. “God, I’m so naïve. I totally just fell for that.”

“I’m Vick Reynolds,” he replies as he switches the grocery basket he’s carrying to his left hand and reaches out his right hand to shake mine. As his fingers curl around my hand, I notice his nails are caked with various colors of paint.

“Demi Stevens,” I mumble through my humiliation. His hand is firm and holds mine until my eyes meet his again.

“Painter,” he says.

“I’m sorry?” I ask, confused.

“You were looking at my nails. I thought you might be wondering why they’re caked with paint. I’m a painter.”

“Oh . . . like art or like house painter?”

“Well, both actually. We do commercial painting. Unfortunately, the artistic side doesn’t quite pay the rent. I just moved here from California. I’m working with my uncle, Gregory’s Paint. Have you heard of it?”

“No, I’m sorry. I haven’t.” He nods once at my response, and an awkward beat of silence falls between us. Of course, I feel obligated to fill it. “How do you like it here so far? I imagine this small town is quite different from any place in California.”

The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile as his blue eyes stare at me. “As of about two minutes ago, I think I like this town a whole lot better.”

Whatever the reddest shade of red is, I have to be that color as I continue to blush. His line was cheesy, but I still appreciate the compliment. “That was quite a line, Vick,” I jest.

He laughs. “I’m sorry. I’m a bit out of practice here. It’s been a while.”

“And why is that?”

“Women don’t like starving artists,” he admits as he runs his paint dappled hand through his shaggy hair. “And what do you do, if I may ask?”

“I’m a Pre-K teacher over at Monroe Elementary. I work with children on the Autism Spectrum.”

“Wow,” his brows rise. “So you’re extremely attractive and a really good person.”

“Are you hitting on me?” I blurt out.

He laughs again, his perfectly placed white teeth on full display. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“I don’t know. It’s been a while for me, too,” I admit, pushing some of my hair behind my ear.

“And why is that?” I hadn’t realized how bold of a question it is until he asked me. He answered when I asked; I guess it’s only fair I do, too.

“Widow,” I answer quietly. “He passed away two years ago.”

“Damn,” he sighs. “I’m sorry.” He has that same look all people do when I tell them I’m a widow. A look of shock and surprise—and having no idea how to respond.

“Thanks.”

“I don’t want to sound insensitive here, but . . . you haven’t been on even one date in two years?”

I snort. “Nope. I think the men in this town, they knew Blake, and I think they feel like it’s disrespectful to him or something.” This is true, but even if they had asked, I’m not sure I would have been ready.