Chapter 27

[Vee]

After waking up in Ross's bed for the third night in a row, and a final win against Milwaukee, making the series 2-1 in favor of the Anchors, I enter Ross's kitchen wearing one of his T-shirts.

Ross's home is incredible. He lives in a neighborhood where older homes have been restored to their original glory with modern amenities. His red-brick home is three stories tall and, like many classic homes in the city, it's narrow but long from front to back. He doesn't have much of a front yard or back but has professional landscaping with some seasonal flowers in the green mix.

His kitchen contains a huge island with four plush bar stools that face a large state-of-the-art set of industrial appliances and dark cabinets, and it's a favorite spot of mine in the house. From my position, seated at the end of the countertop, morning sunlight streams into the space from an Eastern window. In this location, I'm inspired to write.

After our night of sexy talk, I woke with a burst of energy and some new material for my stagnant manuscript. Last night after the final game, the Anchors traveled, so Ross and I only exchanged text messages while the team headed to another state.

With my tea prepared, I take a seat at the stool I've staked as mine and open my laptop.

Something causes me to look up. A flicker of movement in the corner of my eye before I glance up and squeak, jiggling my tea mug and drippling some of the hot liquid onto my hand. Quickly setting down the mug with a shaky thunk , I meet equally the startled gaze of a bare-chested college-aged boy standing at the opposite end of the island.

"Who are you?"

"Who are you ?" I parrot, noticing the young man is only wearing a pair of boxer briefs. I don't need to clarify if this young man belongs to Ross. With dark blonde hair and bright blue eyes, he's exactly what I'd envision a younger Ross Davis to look like .

"I asked you first," he counters.

"Fair point," I reply, considering I should stand and offer my hand as way of introduction. Then think twice as I'm only wearing a T-shirt that belongs to this kid's father.

"I'm Verona Huxley," I state, using the open laptop as a shield. "A friend of your dad's."

The kid tilts his head. "You're older than his typical friends ." Air quotes are implied in his exaggeration, and I should be offended on multiple counts. Implying I'm old; assuming I'm a certain type ; labeling me as that kind of friend.

Clearing my throat, ignoring the lump in it, I state, "I'm not that kind of friend. And I prefer to consider myself as mature or seasoned." I tip my head and angle my gaze toward the ceiling. "Maybe delicately aged? Prime aged? In my prime?" I turn back to Ross's son and wave my hand. "Anyway, which son are you?"

"I'm Harley."

Silence falls between us a second before I say, "Your dad hadn't mentioned anyone would be here."

Harley tips up one bushy brow. His expression mirrors his father before he narrows his eyes. "Are you staying here?"

"I—" Suddenly, I felt excessively guilty that I've made myself at home in Ross's house for a few nights and used the setting of his kitchen as my writing space. I close my laptop, prepared to leave the residence once Harley leaves the kitchen, as I'm not going to walk around in only an extra-long T-shirt in front of Ross's son.

Harley watches as the laptop snaps shut. He steps closer to the large island, cell phone in his hand.

"I won't tell if you don't tell."

I chuckle at how quickly he wants to manipulate this situation. "Shouldn't you be concerned that a strange woman is in your dad's home?" Then again, does this happen often? Only last fall, Ross might have brought Chandler here.

Harley shakes his head. "Dad never brings his friends around. I only met Chandler Bressler once, and that was outside the house. "

He might be trying to make me feel better, but I don't.

"I'm sorry," I reply not certain what else to say to him.

Harley shrugs. "Don't be. She's superficial. Now, if Dad were dating Aria Grendall, that would be a different situation." He pauses and wrinkles his nose. "Then again, that would just be wrong." He shivers. "He could be her father, which would make me her stepbrother." He pauses again, tilts his head. "Okay, that might not be bad. I could use all her connections."

As I have no idea who Aria Grendall is, or what she does, I let Harley have this argument with himself, although not liking the idea of Ross dating someone possibly as young as his own child.

"You attend DePaul, right?" I ask to defuse my thoughts.

Harley smiles slowly, his mouth wide and big like his dad's can be. "I do attend DePaul." He does that cute head tilt again. "Did Dad tell you about me?"

"Only that you're a freshman at DePaul and you're majoring in musical theatre. And he wanted to move back to Chicago to be closer to you."

Harley lowers his head, but I don't miss his dismissive scoff. "Yeah, well, two out of three isn't bad."

My brows crease, curious what he thinks isn't correct. "You don't attend DePaul as a freshman for musical theatre?"

He lifts his head and sighs. "No, those three things are correct."

Which means he doesn't believe his father wanted to move to Chicago for his son.

Watching Harley, he waves his hand, brushing off the conversation. "Anyway, I'm here to do laundry for free and raid his refrigerator."

I snortle. "Well, good luck on item number two. You might starve, buddy."

The kid laughs and wrinkles his nose again. "Yeah, I should know better when Dad isn't around. There probably isn't much in that fridge."

Slowly, I stand, using the island as best I can as a shield. "If you give me a minute to get dressed, I can see what he has and rustle us up something." I swing my arm before me like I'm an old-time cowboy on the range. I have no idea why I did that, and I slowly lower my fist to the countertop. "Or I could order you something?"

Harley watches me for a long minute, not taking in my appearance as much as trying to read me. Maybe wondering what my agenda is here, in his dad's house, making myself at home.

"You're different than the rest of them." His voice is soft, quieter as his gaze drops to the countertop where he flips his phone repetitively, like a nervous tick.

"Different how?" I don't think I need to ask different from who. He means all the other women that have passed through Ross's life. The repertoire of supermodels and influencers.

"Besides being old ," I tease, trying to mask the gut punch to my belly from that comment. And any physical comparison to someone more Ross's type.

"You remind me of . . ." As his voice drifts, he stops the twirl of his phone and then lifts his head, not finishing his sentence. "Do you think you could make pancakes?"

I stare back at the boy, on the verge of being a man. Some kids are eighteen on the edge of twenty-eight while others easily slip back to being ten again. Harley is at that precipice.

"I'll certainly hunt around for the ingredients but if I don't find them how does The Syrup Tap sound?" A Chicago-area favorite, the waffle and pancake house is a place my girls love. "Or if you don't like that place, we could go somewhere else."

"No," Harley is quick to answer. "The Syrup Tap sounds great, Verona."

"My friends call me Vee," I tell him, and you'd have thought I'd shared my deepest secret with the kid by the way he smiles in response. Wide and big again.

"Vee it is. You can still call me Harley."

"Got it." I finger gun him, but he's already turning away from me.

"I'll get dressed."

As he disappears, I'm left standing in Ross's kitchen curious why Harley thinks his father wouldn't want to be closer to him. The moment also feels a bit surreal as I just had a discussion with Ross's son while wearing Ross's T-shirt, while his son was only in his underwear.

And now, I have a breakfast date with Harley Davis.

+ + +

Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you look at the situation, I learn a great deal about Harley and his dad during our pancake meal.

"Aunt Rena essentially raised us after our mom died," Harley explains around a mouthful of sliver-dollar chocolate chip pancakes. He asked for the full order, which amounts to a dozen of the chocolate pancakes smothered in whipped cream and covered in mini-chocolate chips.

"I'm sorry about your mom," I say, knowing the words are inadequate compared to the permanent hole in his heart. "I lost my husband, and my girls have been raised by a single mom."

Not certain why I tell him this information, Harley doesn't seem disturbed by it, but breaks into an inquisition about my girls. Their ages, occupations, and locations, plus something unique about each of them.

"Laurel is just social." I laugh as there isn't any other way to describe what she enjoys. "She's a good friend and I'd say going out on the town is her favorite activity. My Hannah loves baseball."

Harley scrunches his nose again.

"Not a fan?"

"If it wasn't forced down my throat, I might have been. I'm just not terribly athletic."

Now , I'm not about to admit I checked out a nineteen-year-old, but his lean body has definition, which could be good genetics, but also a sign of some physical training.

Still, I don't mention it.

"So, you don't like sports?"

"I'm more of a bleacher fan. As in, I'll go to a game if I must, and then I just want to have fun while I'm there. "

I smile. "Makes sense. Hannah primarily got her love of the game from my dad. He had season tickets to the Anchors and often took my girls to the games as a Grandpa-and-Girls day out. He'd load them up on peanuts, popcorn, and Cracker Jack —"

"Like the song," Harley interjects before taking another bite of pancakes.

"Exactly. And then he'd bring them home all wired on junk food. But Hannah started picking up the game. The rules. The stats. The players and positions. She played softball as a kid."

"And she's the one in Milwaukee? Physical therapy major?" Harley confirms, showing he's paying attention to the details.

I nod.

In all our discussion, the one thing Harley doesn't ask me is how I met his father, and I'm grateful the topic doesn't come up.

As he finishes scarfing up his pancakes, his phone rings and he glances up at me as the Darth Vader ring-tone blares between us.

"I should answer this."

With my brows lifted, I respond. "Of course."

"Dad?" Harley says into the phone, gingerly lifting it like his fingers are sticky from syrup and melted chocolate. His gaze leaps to me after a brief second. "I called because there was a strange woman in the house this morning."

With his eyes still on me, he listens a second before speaking. "Yeah, that's what she said. You are friends, but not friends -friends, not like the kind with benefits."

My mouth falls open as my cheeks heat.

His brows crease deeply at something his father says, listening intently another minute before he defends, "I didn't kick her out. She took me out for pancakes."

He winks at me, like we share a secret.

"Actually, I'm with Vee right now," Harley clarifies. He listens another second before muttering. "Yeah, you too." Then he hangs up.

Glancing at me, he says, "Dad wants you to call him ASAP." Sarcasm drips from his voice .

Slowly, I smile, wondering what his father might have said, but then again, I'm not going to pepper a teenager with my curiosity.

"So, Darth Vader?" I nod toward the phone face down on the table.

Harley shrugs, falling back against the booth seat, his chocolate pancakes mostly decimated but now no longer of interest.

"Yeah, it feels appropriate."

With a soft laugh, I shake my head. "Well, I think Darth Vader can wait until we finish breakfast. I'm NIAH."

"NIAH?"

"Not in any hurry." I lift my tea mug for a slow sip and glance at Harley across the table, who has lowered his gaze but timidly smiles while his face lights up, seemingly pleased that I'm not in a rush to finish this meal with him.