“Be careful,” she said, sounding alarmed.
“Yeah.” He grinned at her. Better this time. “Piece of cake.”
Hang by your hands. Toe away from the wall. Drop and roll. He rose to his feet as if it was nothing and took a bow. She was definitely smiling when he faded into the darkness.
He’d really liked her. He still really liked her. But…married? Trevor couldn’t believe he’d said that. Oh, man. What if she took him up on it?
CHAPTER NINE
RICHARD COULDN’T DECIDE if this was the most idiotic idea on the face of the earth, or a good one. As he rang the doorbell, Trevor waited a step behind him, sulky but seemingly resigned.
“I hope she doesn’t cook something weird,” he muttered. “Like Mom—”
Richard started to turn. Trev hardly ever mentioned his mother, and when he did he shut down fast, like he was now. But why was he mad at his father, too, if it was his mother who had enraged him in the first place?
The door opened, but it was Caitlyn standing there. “Come in.” She didn’t roll her eyes but might as well have. She didn’t even look at Trevor.
“Thank you,” Richard said, nodding. Watching her hang his and Trevor’s coats in the closet, he wondered how Molly had compelled her semiwilling compliance.
“Come on back to the kitchen,” Molly called.
There was a formal dining area, but she’d set the table in the nook attached to the kitchen. He guessed that’s where they ate all their meals, and he’d have done the same. It had the same warmth as the kitchen and was surrounded by glass.
Molly looked good. He’d discovered he really liked her when she got out of her take-me-seriously suits. Tonight was jeans and a snug sweater in a reddish-brown. She was definitely a generously proportioned woman, and made no attempt to hide it. He hoped she wasn’t one of those women who tried to starve her body into submission on a regular basis.
Richard sniffed cautiously, and relaxed when he recognized something Italian.
“Manicotti,” Molly told them. “I hope you like it. It’s a favorite of Cait’s and mine.”
“Sounds good to me,” he said heartily.
Trevor grunted.
“Cait, why don’t you help me dish up. Richard, I could open some wine if you’d like that....”
He shook his head. “I’m not much of a drinker. Water’s fine.”
Eventually they all settled around the table. He hadn’t sat down to a meal with a woman and two kids since the days before he walked in on Lexa with her lover. Trev was six years old then, which made it…eleven years ago. This felt more than bizarre.
Molly smiled at his son. “Trevor, I don’t think I even said hello. I hope this isn’t too awkward for you, given that our interactions haven’t always been positive.”
Trevor stared at her with obvious incredulity.
She cleared her throat. “Cait and I were talking today about Thanksgiving. Are you staying here with your dad?”
Trev’s gaze flicked to his father. “I guess.”
“You must miss your sister.”
“I talk to her,” he said after a minute.
“Maybe if I bought her a ticket she’d come up for Thanksgiving,” Richard heard himself say. “Hell, it’s next week, isn’t it? I should have thought of it sooner. I suggested Christmas, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to leave your mom alone.”
“Maybe,” Trevor mumbled.
Richard guessed it was his turn to plow some conversational ground, so to speak. Not his strength. “So, Caitlyn,” he ventured, “I hear you’re quite a dancer.” He winced inwardly at the avuncular tone, which was pretty well guaranteed not to go over well. “Is it ballet?”
She stared at him. Her mother shifted in her seat, which seemed to snap her out of her state of disbelief. “Um, I do ballet, but I do jazz and modern dance, too.”
“Even belly dance,” her mother said brightly.
“Really?” That was Trev. “Hey, cool. I didn’t know that. Do you ever perform?”
Richard gaped at his son, then closed his mouth. Had that been an involuntary exclamation of interest, or was Trevor actually making an effort?
“Um, yeah, sometimes,” Cait said. “I belong to a troupe, and we do dinner shows once in a while. You know that club in Everett? We’ve got a show there in December.” She shot her mother a spiteful look. “Mom doesn’t like them.”
“I never said that....”
“You didn’t have to,” her daughter shot back.
“I love the dancing. You know that.” Her conflict was apparent on her face. “It’s the part where you shimmy around with people giving you money that reminds me a little too much of strippers. When I saw that creep stick a dollar bill in your cleavage…”