Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

" M om. Stop. What are you doing?" Corey dropped the sweaty T-shirt he'd carried inside in his fist on a chair and leapt forward.

He reached up to brace one hand on his mother's lower back as she balanced on top of the counter in the kitchen.

"I have to get the coffee pot down from the top cabinet."

"There's a coffee pot right on the counter," he said as he tried to figure out how to safely get her down.

"Not that one. The insulated server that keeps it hot." His mom, not quite five feet tall, reached for a shelf over her head. But as Corey's level of panic reached a new high, she emerged triumphant with the item in her hand.

He took the pot from her, dumped it into the sink and then went back to bracing his mother where she stood. Where she shouldn't be standing.

"Will you please get down now?" he begged.

He'd lost his father to a heart attack when he'd been on base, waiting for word of his first deployment. When he'd still been feeling like he'd barely gotten his feet wet on his first assignment after finishing up boot camp.

He still had trouble accepting there'd been nothing he could have done about that. But he'd be damned if his mother got hurt while he stood right there and watched.

"Goodness. Since when are you such a worry wart?" she tsked as she finally let him help her step down onto the chair she'd used to climb onto the counter.

At six foot and one inch tall, Corey had inherited his father's height, but his mother didn't let her size stop her.

That fact wasn't doing Corey's heart any good as it continued to pound fast until her feet were firmly planted on the tile floor. He couldn't fight the suspicion that she did lots of things he wouldn't approve of while he was away from home.

"You obviously need someone to worry about you since you don't show a care for your own safety," he said in defense of himself.

" Pfft . Don't be silly. I was perfectly safe."

That was up for debate but he didn't have time as his mother looked him up and down. "You need to take a shower and put on a shirt."

He agreed with her, and that had been the plan until he'd stumbled upon her tight rope walk across the countertop.

"I'm planning on it, as soon as I grab something to eat," he said as he opened the refrigerator door.

"Nope." Standing at the sink, the coffee pot in her hand, she glanced over her shoulder at him. "Shower first. I have cinnamon rolls in the oven. You can eat one after you're dressed. But now you have to scoot."

He frowned. "Why?"

"The committee will be here in half an hour. I have to get the coffee made and cups, plates and spoons put out?—"

His plans for a big breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast dashed, he drew in a breath and closed the fridge door. "What committee?"

Historical society. Rotary. Church. His mother was involved in so many things, this committee could be just about anything.

"The two-hundred and fiftieth anniversary celebration planning committee," she said over the sound of the running water.

"Ah. Of course. Okay, I'm taking a shower." He shook his head as he walked out of the room, not knowing what exactly they were celebrating from two-hundred and fifty years ago but not curious enough to ask.

There'd be hot fresh cinnamon rolls waiting for him. That was enough of an incentive for him to speed through a shower and get dressed in record time.

Grabbing a pair of gray sweatpants and a T-shirt, he pulled both on.

He wasn't exactly fit for public, but he wasn't going to worry about what he wore on his first full day home to lay around and do a whole lotta nothing—as prescribed. He had no intention of sticking around to see the members of the committee once he'd gotten his coffee and pastry anyway.

No one would see him and that was for the best. He wasn't exactly in the mood to be social. And he definitely wasn't in the mood for conversation or questions about his injuries.

In fact, he needed to remind his mother about that. She knew where he'd been serving. In hindsight he probably shouldn't have sent her that USS Eisenhower coffee mug. But she needed to not mention that to anyone if he was going to avoid the inevitable grilling about the attack that had made the national news.

Trotting down the hallway toward the kitchen, he'd just turned the corner when he slapped smack into a sweet smelling and even sweeter feeling feminine body.

It was reflex that had him gripping the woman by the shoulders to keep her upright.

It was self-preservation that had him dropping that grip when she glared at him and basically growled, "You can take your hands off me now."

He did as he'd been told as realization hit.

She was older. Her hair different, shorter, sassier, rather than long and permanently in a ponytail like in high school. But there was no doubt. Particularly because of the resemblance to her brother Quinn, whom he'd just seen.

"Josie?"

"Corey," she said in a voice low with barely contained anger.

Jeezus, this girl was acting as if she hated him. Why? He had no clue.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, since that seemed like a better place to start for their first conversation in a decade.

"I'm on your mom's committee," she bit out between clenched teeth.

"The centennial anniversary committee or whatever?" he asked in shock.

Josie was part of what he'd assumed would be an all blue-haired old lady committee? That was weird, right? Even his addled brain realized that.

"Yes. Why?" She glared.

One glance at her clenched fists at her sides had him wondering if she was mad enough she'd actually hit him and what that blow might do to his already damaged brain.

He shook his head. "No reason. Mom just didn't mention you were, uh, on it."

"If I'd known you'd be here I would have offered to host at my parents' house," she grumbled, seemingly more to herself than to him.

Again, why? What had he done to her to warrant this?

"Josie, did you find the printer in the den?" his mother called before appearing behind Josie.

"Not yet. I got waylaid," she answered while still pinning him with a glare.

His mother came around the corner. She stepped up to Corey and grabbed his arm as she faced Josie.

"Isn't it great?" his mother asked. "My baby boy is home. For a whole month!"

"It is. Just great," Josie repeated in a jovial tone accompanied by a forced smile. His mother would never guess Josie's true feelings about his presence but it was obvious to him.

"And why are you home for a whole month?" Josie asked, overly brightly.

"It's actually closer to three weeks," he said to divert the conversation from her question. He was due back on base August first.

At the same time, his mother began to answer it with, "He was?—"

"Injured," Corey jumped in to finish his mother's explanation. "Got hit by a blast. But I'll be fine."

He stared wide-eyed down at his mother, hoping she got the hint. She frowned, but nodded and said slowly, "Yes. That."

"Oh, what a shame," Josie said with an edge in her voice that had him wondering which part she was commenting upon. What was a shame in her opinion? That he'd been injured? Or that he'd recover?

Maybe being home wasn't going to be as restful as he'd anticipated.