Maggie stood on the front porch. Today’s gray suit was as drab as the brown thing. The demure neckline had a lace collar that would have suited a nun’s habit. The itty-bitty heels of her gray sandals looked uncomfortable to walk in. No sign of toenail polish. Not that he was obsessed or anything.
He tamped down his jumping pulse. “How’s it going?”
“Fine, thank you.” She smiled uncertainly. “I hope I’m not too early. I’m still finding my way around and get lost, even with GPS, so I leave extra time.”
“Not a problem.”
“Come in.” His mom bustled past him. “It’s too warm to be standing on the porch. I’m Tina Badoletti.” She took Maggie’s arm and ushered her down the hall toward the kitchen, chatting a mile a minute about the weather, her garden and the flowers she’d just picked.
Jake followed behind, shaking his head fondly.
As Maggie walked into the kitchen, she turned to give him a slightly shell-shocked smile. His eyes were drawn downward, over her curves to those shapely calves and ankles and back up to...
Buttons. Lace-covered buttons that looked like sugar-dusted candy. In a line, along the side seam of her pencil skirt.
His fingers itched to discover if they were real or just for show. His heart thudded against his ribs at the thought of undoing them, one at a time. His groin tightened at the image of what would be revealed beneath.
Jake slammed to a halt outside the kitchen. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t going to happen. He had to focus.
Right after he figured out how to spend the afternoon with Maggie without getting distracted by those damn buttons.
He resisted the urge to knock his head against the wall and entered the kitchen.
Maggie sat at the table with a glass of lemonade. His mom had commandeered the seat next to her and was in the midst of a merciless barrage of questions.
He should intervene. Grown men, even some of the toughest hockey players, had quaked at Tina Badoletti’s inquisition. Maggie, the nervous mouse, stood no chance.
Yet as Jake hovered in the doorway, ready to leap to the rescue, he realized she was handling his mom’s nosiness just fine. “Of course I have pictures of Emily.” Maggie laughed as she pulled out a purse-size photo album.
The tension tightening his shoulders slipped away at the cozy sight of the two of them with their heads together, flipping through family pictures. Funny, he couldn’t imagine any of the women in his past being so comfortable with his mom.
Who did that say more about, them or him? He cleared his throat, trying to ease the knot lodged there.
Maggie stiffened. Her wide-eyed gaze shot to him. She closed the album and stuffed it in her purse, then pulled out her notepad. Disappointment tugged his chest at her jerky actions. The nervous mouse was back.
How could he get her to relax again? To replace her stricken expression with the bright smile she’d worn a moment ago.
He said the first thing that popped into his head. “Ma, if you get out my baby pictures, I’ll tell Dad about your bingo winnings in the flour canister.”
His mom rose, waggling her finger at him. “As if I’d show her your scrawny, naked, six-month-old butt.” She turned to Maggie. “He was the skinniest baby.”
Maggie bit her lip as if suppressing a giggle.
Jake slid into the chair his mom had vacated, giving Maggie a “what can you do” shrug. “You’ll wonder why I wanted to move home when I get so much abuse.”
“Pfft,” his mom said. “Enough people treat you like a movie star. If I didn’t keep you grounded, your head wouldn’t fit through the door. Isn’t that right, Maggie?”
The giggle escaped, becoming a laugh.
He liked that her laugh was full-bodied, not the squeaky titter so many women had. He also liked how it lit up her face, her eyes.
Clearly torn between siding with his mom and not offending her client, Maggie stuttered an answer, watching him carefully.
“Yeah, you girls stick together.” He winked at her
She looked startled for a moment, then smiled tentatively.
His mom slid a plate with a slice of pound cake before Maggie, overriding her objection with a pat on her shoulder. “You’ll need the energy to help my son choose a house. He’s been as miserable as a wet cat about the ones you sent.”
Heat rose up his neck. “Ma, you’re killing me. Don’t you have something to do?”
“I have to get dinner on.” She pulled vegetables out of the refrigerator. “You know your father is starving by seven.” She pointed an onion at the pile of papers. “Those are all my son’s rejects.”
“You didn’t like anything?” Maggie frowned as she sifted through the discarded sheets and cross-checked them with her list.