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  “We’re getting ice cream,” Wyatt explains. “Because I learned how to score on a header.”

  “That sounds very impressive,” Cash says, ignoring the laser shots coming from my eyes. “Ice cream is a great way to celebrate.”

  “You should come with us,” Wyatt says easily, like it’s no big deal. Like the mere presence of this person on this field isn’t making me feel dizzy and out of breath.

  “Mr. Ransome is very busy,” I say just as Cash replies, “Sure, I’d love to.”

  I gape at him, mouth open, but he merely widens his eyes innocently.

  “Wyatt, go take your ball to the car,” I instruct, handing him the keys. “I’ll be right there.”

  The car is only a few feet away and he won’t have to cross the lot to get to it, but I still keep my eyes firmly on his retreating back until he reaches it. Only then do I spin to face Cash. “What in the hell are you doing?”

  He holds out his hands. “He invited me. It would have been rude to say no. Little dude is celebrating learning how to score a header.”

  “I mean, what are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  I could have stamped my foot in anger and frustration. “Well, I don’t want to talk to you.”

  Cash frowns but he doesn’t look too upset. Instead, he almost seems to be enjoying this. “That’s kind of mean, Sam. Would you want Wyatt to hear you say that?”

  A wave of anger, so strong I have to take a step back, washes over me. “Don’t you ever, ever talk about my son.” My voice is low and fierce and I notice with no small amount of pleasure that Cash’s eyes have widened, making him look almost scared.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Just go, okay? I can’t have you here. You need to—”

  “Are we going or what?” Wyatt asks, appearing at my side.

  “I told you to wait at the car,” I snap, and his eyes widen. I don’t think I’ve ever snapped at him in his entire life.

  “You told me to put my ball away,” he says defensively. “I’m not supposed to sit in cars without a grownup.”

  I blow out a gust of air. “You’re right, kiddo. Sorry. Let’s go get you your ice cream.”

  I take his hand and pull him toward the car but he looks over his shoulder at Cash. “What about him?”

  “He can’t come.”

  “But he said he would love to.”

  I stop and close my eyes, counting to ten and breathing through my nose.

  “Are you okay, Mom? Should Cash drive us?”

  “I’d be happy to, you know,” Cash says. “I have my Porsche here.”

  Wyatt pulls his hand from mine to spin around, looking at Cash with wide eyes. “You have a Porsche?”

  “Sure do. A 911 Carrera GTS.”

  “Mom,” Wyatt says, tugging at my hand. “We have to go with him. Please. We have to. A Porsche is only, like, the coolest car ever. Please mom. Please.”

  “Yeah, Sam,” Cash says, grinning. “Please?”

  I could cry. I really could. Why is this happening to me? How am I supposed to get out of this without showing Wyatt an appalling lack of manners?

  “Mom, please. I’ve never even seen a Porsche in real life.”

  “Fine,” I say from between gritted teeth, cursing Bruce for passing his love of flashy onto his grandson. “We can get ice cream with Cash.” I meet the intruder’s eyes. “But that’s it.”

  He nods seriously. “Sure, sure. Ice cream and that’s it.”

  Even through my rage I can tell that the car is pretty cool when we reach his spot. “I thought you guys rented a Jeep?” I ask, not looking at him.

  “It was getting too hard, all sharing one vehicle. I had our management get my car shipped up from my place in L.A.”

  I think of the years and years I had driven a broken down rusty old Honda before I finally saved enough to make payments on a newer car. But Cash had just had this shipped up. A freaking Porsche. What a douchenozzle.

  “Want to sit in the front?” he asks Wyatt, who immediately starts jumping up and down.

  “Sorry, kiddo. You’re too short for the front seat even in a Porsche.”

  Wyatt frowns but clambers into the tiny back seat all the same.

  “Is that a thing?” Cash asks. “Too short for the front seat?”

  “Kids can get injured from the airbags,” I spit out, not wanting to say more to him than I absolutely have to. “They can’t sit in the front until they’re at least twelve.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  I snort. “Why would you? Why would you need to know anything that doesn’t have to do with booze or sex or rock and roll?”

  As I climb into the car I think I see a flash of hurt cross his face but I’m too pissed off to care.

  Chapter Nine

  Cash

  It wasn’t hard to figure out where Sam was. In a tiny little town like this¸ the options were pretty limited. All it had taken was a few well-placed smiles to the girls at the gas station to get the scoop that Sam Warner could currently be found playing soccer at West Wood field.

  What the cashier had failed to mention, of course, was that she was playing soccer with her kid.

  I knew he was hers the moment I saw them on the field together. He had the exact same hair, for starters. And the way he looked at her, the combination of love and awe, something approaching hero admiration—there was no way that kid was looking at anyone but his own mother.

  From a bench by the parking lot I watched as they practiced, trying the same move over and over again. I could tell the kid was getting frustrated—a few times he stamped his feet in the grass, once or twice taking the ball and chucking it down field as far as he could. But Sam didn’t react at all. She would simply look at him, eyebrows raised, and wait for him to retrieve it, not saying a word.

  When he finally managed to hit the ball with the top of his head, knocking it directly into the net, I wanted to cheer, too. It wasn’t very often you saw such an overt display of dedication and hard work pay off. I felt proud of the kid, which was weird, since I didn’t even know him.

  Sam reacted first, throwing her arms up in the air and letting out a loud yell. It had taken the kid a second, as if he couldn’t quite believe he had done it, but then he was whooping and yelling, too, and she swept him up off the ground, swinging him around, laughing and cheering.

  I couldn’t explain what was going through my mind, watching them. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, not really. Kids play with their moms all the time, right? But there was something in the way they interacted, in the way they looked at each other, in the stubbornly dead set way in which she let him practice, over and over again, never losing patience. Never telling him to give up already.

  It hit me right in the gut.

  I’m sure that Daisy could give me some deep, shrink-talk reason for this. She’d spent a lot of time in therapy after her experiences, still went, as far as I knew. I’m sure if I could find the words to tell her about the explosion taking place in my chest, she would give me some crap about my mother leaving and me never feeling like I could count on anyone.

  Maybe she would have been right. Or maybe it had nothing to do with my mom at all. Maybe it was just seeing Sam like that, all happy and unconcerned. No trace of makeup on her face, no stress or anxiety about being reminded of her dead husband. She was happy, plain and simple. And she looked so fucking gorgeous I wanted to grab her and kiss her right then and there.

  When they grabbed the soccer ball and started toward the car, I panicked. I couldn’t just let her walk away, couldn’t let her leave without talking to her. Maybe Lennon had been right all along. Maybe the rejection hadn’t been bugging me because of my ego. Maybe it was bugging me because of her. Because I wanted more from her.

  Whatever the reason, I jogged across the field to intercept them without much thought at all. It just seemed like the right thing to do. It wasn’t until I saw her face, shocked and horrified, that I r
ealized she had never told me about the kid. And there had to be a reason for that, right? Clearly she didn’t want me to know.

  I searched my memory for any encounter I’d had with a single mom, but I drew a blank. My mind whirling, I tried to imagine what she must be thinking, with that wide eyed look of terror on her face. She thought I would run, I realized. She didn’t tell me about him because she thought I wouldn’t want to get involved with a chick that had a kid.

  I smiled as I leaned down to Wyatt’s level to introduce myself, wanting to show Sam that I wasn’t freaked out by it. If anything, my interaction seemed to piss her off even more. When the boy asked me to join them for ice cream, it looked like her head might pop right off her neck.

  I don’t know why I pushed it. I probably should have taken her obvious cues, realized how uncomfortable she was, and got the hell out of there. But all I could think of was how she had looked playing with him. How happy. How gorgeous. I wanted to see that look again.

  The kid was clearly impressed with my car and I took no small amount of pleasure in that. His mother, however, merely sneered and got totally pissed off when I suggested he ride up front. Her quip about me not understanding anything important had stung, but then again, why wouldn’t she think that? I would just have to show her otherwise.

  I follow Sam’s directions to an ice cream parlor on the edge of town that has clearly seen better days. “Aw, mom,” Wyatt says. “I wanted to go to Juliano’s.”

  “Sorry, kiddo,” she says, her voice tight. “Dippers is closer.”

  “Dippers is lame,” he mutters and I stifle a laugh before I realize that I’d grabbed a quick ice cream at Juliano’s with my brothers the first day we were here. It was right in the middle of town, bustling with foot traffic—or as bustling as West Wood ever got. Basically the polar opposite of this drab, rundown, out of the way place, that I’m now pretty sure she had insisted on because she didn’t want anyone to see me with them.

  She’s out of the car before I can get to her door, helping Wyatt climb over the seat. She grabs his hand and pulls him into the building and I have to trot to catch up with them. We’re greeted with a slightly musty smell—a few rickety tables, several of which are littered with napkins, and a bored looking server standing behind the counter, texting. The back of the room opens up into an arcade, and I think I hear the sound of bowling pins being knocked over. I look at Sam with eyebrows raised.

  “Bowling alley is back there,” she explains, her voice every bit as tight as it had been before. “They share the arcade.”

  I follow Wyatt to the counter where he makes his selection—peanut butter fudge ice-cream topped with hot fudge, whipped cream, and sprinkles. I grin at the massive bowl of ice cream as texting girl hands it to him and order the exact same thing.

  “Where’s yours?” Sam asks his mom. She gives him a grim smile.

  “Not hungry, kiddo.”

  His mouth drops open in a perfect O. “You’re always hungry for ice cream.”

  “Wyatt—”

  “You told me that ice cream melts in your belly and fills in all the nooks and crannies so you can never be too full for ice cream.”

  She looks like she wants to melt into the floor and I can’t hide my grin. “Double mint chocolate chip,” she tells the server.

  “What about your fudge?”

  “With fudge.”

  “And your sprinkles?”

  “Wyatt, I am perfectly capable of ordering myself an ice cream,” she says, and I can tell it’s taking everything she has not to yell at the kid.

  He nods at her seriously. “I just want to make sure you get what you went. This is celebration ice cream, you know.”

  Her entire face melts at him and she smiles—it’s like she forgot I was even there. “Thanks, kiddo. You’re right.”

  Wyatt leads us to a table near the back, his eyes on the arcade, and I have a feeling he’s going to begging for quarters before too long.

  "So,” Wyatt says, looking between his mother and me and folding his hands on the table. It looks like he’s running an important meeting. “How do you two know each other?”

  I nearly choke on my ice cream. Are kids supposed to sound that mature? Sam seems to take it in stride. “We met at Jimmy’s last weekend. Penny and I went out after you went home.”

  Wyatt nods seriously. “I see.”

  Sam tries to hide a grin and it couldn’t be more obvious that she gets a major kick out of her kid and how adult he sounds.

  “Do you live here?” he asks, turning his attention to me. “I’ve never seen you before.”

  “I’m here for work,” I explain, feeling like I’m at a job interview or something.

  “And what do you do for work?”

  “Chill out with the questions, Wyatt,” Sam says, taking a bite of her ice cream. She seems slightly more relaxed than she’d been.

  “It’s okay.” I turn my attention to the little boy. “I’m in a rock and roll band.”

  His eyes go wide as saucers. “You are?”

  I nod. “I am.”

  As quickly as they had widened, his eyes now narrow, studying my face as if not quite sure what to make of me. “Like, a real one? Or one that plays at Jimmy’s on the weekends?”

  Sam snorts and I shoot her a mock glare. “A real one. We’re called Ransom.”

  Wyatt drops his spoon, gaping at me. “No way.”

  “Way.”

  He turns to his mom, mouth still open. “You met someone from Ransom and you didn’t tell me?”

  She looks down on him, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “How do you know who Ransom is?”

  “Mom.” He rolls his eyes, giving her the classic you’re-so-lame look popular with kids everywhere. “Everyone at my school likes Ransom. They are like, the coolest.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him. “I’ll tell my brothers we’re a hit at your elementary school.”

  “So which one are you?”

  “I’m, uh, Cash. Remember?”

  He waves his hands dismissively. “Yeah, but like, what do you do? In the band?”

  Apparently a kid’s knowledge of rock music doesn’t encompass the names of the band members. “I play guitar.”

  “Sweet!”

  “It is pretty sweet.”

  “Do you have concerts and stuff?”

  “We do. We finished a world tour in the fall.”

  “Wow.” Wyatt is looking at me like I’m the coolest thing he’s ever seen. And sure, the kid is probably about eight years old, but I can’t deny it makes me feel pretty badass.

  “We’ve played concerts in almost every state.”

  “Are you seriously bragging to an eight year old?” Sam asks, her voice low.

  I wink at her. “I have to take it where I can get it.”

  “What about Florida?” Wyatt asks.

  “Oh yeah.” I lean back in my chair, affecting a pose of lazy nonchalance. “Played Florida a bunch of times.”

  “Have you been to Disney World?” he practically whispers the word, as if in awe.

  “We played a concert at Epcot last year.”

  He shakes his head. “Wow.”

  I grin at him. “Yup. Wow.”

  “Wyatt, your ice cream is melting and I’m not going to buy you more,” Sam warns, and Wyatt attacks his dessert, peppering me with questions between bites. I tell him about the various tours, about the screaming fans and our TV appearances.

  “Do you think you could show me your guitar sometime?” he asks, scraping the bottom of his bowl. “I’ve never even seen one.”

  “Sure,” I tell him easily. “I can teach you a couple chords.”

  He merely shakes his head, as if the concept is too cool for words. “Wyatt,” Sam says, pulling out her purse. “Why don’t you go play some games, kiddo.”

  He looks up at me, his expression similar to those I’ve seen on fans countless times. “You wanna come?”

  Before I can answer Sam is pushing a handful of quar
ters at him. “Cash and I need to chat. You go play.”

  He looks disappointed for a moment before he sees how many quarters she’s given him. “Ten? I get ten?”

  “It’s not every day you score your first header goal.”

  “Thanks, Mom!” He hurries from the booth, holding the precious quarters in his cupped hands.

  As soon as he’s gone a thick silence descends on the table. I dare a peek at Sam. She’s glaring at me. Shit.

  “What are you trying to do here?”

  I shrug, offering her my most appealing smile. Her face remains cold. “I was just being friendly.”

  “You can’t just do stuff like that Cash—tell him you’ll teach him guitar? You have no right to get his hopes up like that.”

  “Who says I’m getting his hopes up? I’d be happy to show him.”

  “You have to be around to show him,” she snaps.

  “Well, why can’t I be around?” I reach for her hand but she snatches it away, hiding them both under the table. “Look, Sam. I had a really good time on Saturday. And I don’t see why—”

  “Why what? Why I can’t be your fuck buddy while you’re in town?”

  I withdraw my hand, a little stunned. “I wasn’t going to say that.”

  “What, then? Explain it to me, Cash. Explain it real simple. Because in case you haven’t noticed—” she points down the hall to the arcade. “My life is a little bit complicated.”

  I run my hands through my hair, unsure of how to respond. I hadn’t gone in search of her with any real plan in mind. All I knew then was that I wanted to see her. And all I knew now was that I really wanted to see her. As much and as often as possible.

  “I like you, Sam.”

  She closes her eyes as if pained. “That’s nice, Cash, but it doesn’t mean shit.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Her eyes snap open so she can glare at me again. “Why? Did you not notice the eight year old child that’s been hanging out with us all afternoon?”

  “Look, I don’t care that you have a kid. I know some guys get weird about that, but I really don’t mind.”

  She lets out a loud, almost vicious sounding laugh. “You don’t mind. You don’t mind. Oh, thank goodness. Everything will be fine because you don’t mind.”