him hot earlier. But having an R-rated conversation with her now—well, he was halfway to hard already. If they kept it up, he’d have to order the cannoli just to prolong the time he could keep his lower half hidden under the table.
But before he could ask her anything else, she excused herself to go to the restroom. He asked her if she wanted him to join her, but she rolled her eyes and told him, “No, it’s only going to be me and the pride of Italy.”
He watched her walk away, enjoying the way her black slacks highlighted the curve of her ass. She had a nice swaying walk—one that would look downright decadent without the business clothes in the way. His phone rang, interrupting his appreciation of the scenery.
He reached for it without looking and slid his thumb across the screen to answer. “Yeah?”
“Uh …” asked a hesitant male voice. “Is this Sa—”
The phone cut out for a second. “What? I’m having trouble hearing you.”
“Is this Sasha?”
“Who? No. I think you’ve got the wrong number, man.”
“No, I mean, it’s not. I have it programmed on my phone.” There was a pause as if the guy was checking his screen, then he was back. “It’s the right number. I reserved a call at eight. Am I going to get charged for these minutes? Where’s Sasha?”
Pike frowned and pulled the phone away from his ear to check the caller ID, but when he did, he realized the phone in his hand didn’t have a black cover like his. It had a bright blue one. Shit. He’d answered Oakley’s phone.
But the dude was asking for a Sasha and the caller ID said Private Number. He put the phone back to his ear. “Wires must be crossed, dude. Wrong number.”
“No, but—”
Pike hung up the call and dropped the phone back onto the table next to his own. Same brand and model. Same standard ring. Motherfucker. If Oakley realized he’d answered her phone, she’d be pissed. And have good reason to be.
But it had been a wrong number, so maybe it wasn’t too big a deal. It hadn’t been some boyfriend calling or a family member. Nothing that could cause any problems. Maybe he should just mention it to her, and they could laugh off the mix-up. It was a weird enough call.
The guy had wanted a Sasha … who he’d reserved at eight and had on speed dial … and would get charged minutes for.
He snorted when all the information locked together. Shit, had he intercepted some random 900-number call? Hilarious. Oakley would get a kick out of that.
Oakley hustled up to the booth, a frantic edge to her movements. “We’ve got to go.”
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
“I just saw what time it is. I can’t believe we’ve been here that long.” She reached for her purse, which she’d left on her seat. “I have to get back home—like now.”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” Pike said, pulling money from his wallet to toss on the table. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed either.
“Tessa said she’d cover this. I have the company card.”
“No, it’s fine. You’re in a hurry. I’ve got it.” He scooted out of the booth.
Oakley’s phone rang again. Private Caller flashed on the screen.
Oakley’s gaze darted toward it, slight panic crossing her face. She swiped the phone from the table. “Crap, I need to take this. Sorry, I’ll be right back.”
“But—”
She turned in a flurry and put the phone to her ear, leaving Pike standing there in confusion. But before she got far enough away, he heard the hello, the name Sasha, and the utterly cock-hardening downshift in her voice.
He plunked back down in the booth.
What.
The.
Hell.
“Mom … Mom … MOM!”
Oakley jolted awake, almost rolling off the couch, and blinked in the bright lamplight. “Huh, what?”
Wispy threads of her dream clung to her brain like spiderwebs—something where Pike was sweaty and shirtless, like that photo of him drumming but with no drums involved.
“Why are you sleeping?” Reagan asked. Oakley’s vision cleared and she stared up at Reagan’s big, worried eyes. “It’s only six thirty. Are you sick?”
Oakley yawned and sat up. “Oh, no. I’m sorry, baby. I’m fine. I guess that show was just really boring.”
Little frown lines appeared around Reagan’s mouth—her thinking face. Reagan didn’t like when things didn’t go according to her expected schedule. A few years ago, something like Mom falling asleep before bedtime would’ve probably freaked Reagan out enough for a tantrum. But thankfully, they’d moved past the tantrums with age and the help of Reagan’s therapists. Her little girl was learning to cope in quieter, more effective ways. High-functioning. That’s what went on all the reports now.
Oakley thanked the universe every day for those simple words. It was far beyond what she’d hoped for when she’d brought her mute three-year-old into a clinic and they’d given her the autism diagnosis. At twenty, Oakley had barely been keeping her head above water with single motherhood. The word autism had felt like a death sentence for them both. How was she going to handle something that big on her own?
But she had. They had. Her and Rae together. Day by day. Hour by hour. Sometimes in the worst times, minute by minute. Now she had her smart, quirky, beautiful eleven-year-old girl to show for it. They’d both learned how to work with each other and how to accommodate the needs Reagan still had. Not every day was a good day, but they far outweighed the bad now.
“What have you got there?” Oakley asked, noticing the papers clutched in Reagan’s hand.
“Did you write these?” She held the pages up like an accusation.
Oakley rubbed her eyes and leaned closer. The handwritten title “Dandelion” stared back at her. Crap. “Where’d you find those?”
“In the garage. I was looking for some paint for a project and found a box of papers and sheet music.”
“You’re not supposed to be digging through stuff in the garage without my permission.”
She cocked her head in that way Oakley knew would only grow more sarcastic as she closed in on the teen years. “You were sleeping. How could I have asked permission?”
Oakley sighed. Reagan was going to be a demon on the debate team one day. “Then you wake me up or wait. Did you dig through any other boxes?”
“No.
