picked a bad time to get coffee,” she murmured.
“Pardon me?”
She leaned closer, bringing with her the faint scent of gardenias. “It’s three o’clock. New pots are always brewed at five,” she whispered as though she was divulging something top secret. “You got the old stuff.”
Put that way, his drink now tasted worse than ever. “Huh.”
Her pretty green eyes flashed as if he’d said something interesting. “Next time, wait two hours. It’s worth it. I promise.”
He hoped to God there wouldn’t be a next time. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Sure.” She picked up her fork and dug into a plate of baked ziti. “Have you ever had this? It’s great.”
“No.”
“You should. Lucinda—she’s the head chef—she fancies herself to be Italian. She really can make great pasta.”
In spite of himself, he was caught in her conversation. “Fancies herself to be? You mean she’s not?”
She grinned at Hank, who grinned right back as he stuck a straw into his carton of chocolate milk. “Heck, no! She’s Mexican. Grew up in Acapulco.” While he processed that, she turned all dreamy-eyed. “Doesn’t being from Acapulco sound exotic?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Hank blurted. “Lucinda says there’s cliff divers there. Have you ever dived off a cliff?”
“No.”
“Well, do ya want to?”
“No.”
Hank wrinkled his nose and snorted, “Mister, can’t you say anything but no?”
“Can’t you ever shut up?”
Hank stilled and sneaked a worried look at his mom. “Uh-oh.”
She glared at Cal. “We don’t say ‘shut up.’”
“I do. If you don’t want to hear it, don’t sit with me.”
Instead of being cowed, the boy grinned even wider. “You’ve got something on your shirt! It looks like dog poop.” Then the boy hopped up and scurried over toward one of the napkin dispensers.
Stunned to silence, Cal slowly looked down at his front and spied a two-inch-long slab of goo smeared right over his heart. Hastily, he grabbed a napkin and swiped.
But all that seemed to do was set the stain in worse.
Tentatively, he examined what he’d been able to get off with the napkin. Shoot. It probably was poop—but of the horse kind. When he’d helped the hands load up boxes, one of the boxes had come from an old stall. From an old stall that hadn’t been properly mucked. Great. He’d been decorated with it all day long.
But everyone else had been too well-mannered to speak of it.
“Shoot. It probably is crap.” He was just about to explain the stain, when he noticed the woman was staring at him, and not a bit of her expression was pleasant. In fact, that redhead could’ve breathed fire, she looked so pissed off.
“You know, someone really should have washed your mouth out a time or two,” she blurted.
What Red didn’t know was that for pretty much the entirety of his fourth-grade year, he and a bar of Dial had been best friends. Of course, that bar of soap had been his mother’s doing. Everyone knew she’d been doing the best she could with three rambunctious boys.
What was this gal’s excuse for her son’s mouthy ways?
“Maybe someone should have taught that boy of yours some manners.”
“Someone? As in me?” Her eyes narrowed. “You have a lot of nerve.”
He’d had enough. Enough of being jabbed with questions. Enough of sitting in the cafeteria stewing and worrying. “Look. Just because you came over here and sat down doesn’t mean I wanted to talk to you. I didn’t, you know.”
She had the gall to bat her eyelashes. “And here I thought you were just shy. Don’t worry, I won’t bother you again.”
“Good.” And because she was still staring at him with those sparkling eyes—and because he even noticed them—he continued, “Just so you know, I think what you’re doing is shameful.”
“And what is that?”
“You’re obviously trying to pick me up. In a hospital. With your son in tow.”
“Is that right?”
“Hell, yes.”
Actually, he hadn’t really thought that … he’d just been trying to get her to leave him alone. But now that he was warming up to the idea, Cal began to think it had merit. After all, she wouldn’t be the first woman to cozy up to him because he was a Riddell. Lots of women had gotten close with either him or his brothers in order to get the life they’d always dreamed of having. Even Christy, who he’d thought was different.
Red was prevented from replying because Hank returned, a hunk of napkins clutched in his hand. “Hank, sit down and eat, please,” she murmured.
The boy sat. But instead of picking up the rest of that hot dog, he pushed a napkin Cal’s way. “I brought you a napkin for your shirt.”
“Thank you.”
Green eyes the same shade as his mother’s watched him swipe at his shirt again. Then he spoke. “How come you’re at the hospital?”
Though he hadn’t intended to say another word, he said, “My dad’s fixin’ to have heart surgery.”
“I’m here for testing,” Hank said, lifting up his left hand. Two ID bracelets were wrapped around his wrist. And two tiny bruises decorated the back of his hand. Obviously the kid had had an IV lately.
Cal was taken aback. Here he’d been so focused on his own source of pain and aggravation, he’d forgotten to look around a bit. “I’m, uh, sorry.”
Completely oblivious to the tension between the two adults, the boy said, “My mom’s name is Susan. Susan Young.”
Cal nodded in her direction. “Pleased to meet you.” Though he wasn’t pleased at all. Not by a long shot.
“We just moved here from Ohio. We had to move ‘cause we need more money.”
Cal pocketed that little bit of information all while noticing that finally Ms. Susan Young didn’t look quite so smitten with her pain-in-the-ass son. “Is that right?”
“Uh-huh,” Hank muttered. “Who are you?”
“Cal Riddell. Junior.”
Before
