to scoop the laptop off the table, putting his ass right at eye level. It was nice, from what I could tell through the jeans—round and firm, probably. I thought about Luke—he was a musician, and that was sexy in a different way. But he did not have the body that Michael appeared to be sporting beneath his clothes, and a little part of me wondered what it would be like to be with someone as fit as Michael Tucker appeared to be.
I stood up quickly, to get my eyes back to level with his. I felt a flush creeping up my neck and tried to mentally douse my inappropriate self with cold water. “Great.”
We went together into the kitchen, and I watched, feeling useless again, as Michael pulled a tray of enchiladas from the refrigerator and figured out how to heat the wood oven. He’d obviously planned for this too.
“Not sure how long they need to go in the oven,” he said. “I don’t have a lot of experience cooking with wood. But they really just need to get warm, so we should be good.”
“Okay,” I felt a little stupid, standing there just inside the door from the hallway, watching Michael put dinner together so proficiently. I was mostly adept at storing and sorting takeout menus. I was out of my element here. And it wasn’t just in the kitchen, in the realm of meal preparation. I knew nothing about renovating houses, nothing that would help us manage to bring this sagging old house up to modern standards. I could pick out tile and granite, but the current state of this place was so far from that, I could only visualize the potential end result, but had no idea how to get it there.
“There’s some silverware in there,” Michael pointed to a drawer. “Set the table?”
I glanced at the little table against the far wall and had a sudden memory of sitting there as a kid, having graham crackers with Mrs. Easter. The same yellow plastic tablecloth hung over the table now, faded and worn. I wiped it down gently with a sponge, and then put out silverware, my chest warm as I considered the woman who’d left us this place. She had always been kind, from what I could remember. And a little spunky, as evidenced by the combat boots we’d seen the day of her fall. Tears threatened, but I pushed them away. I hadn’t known Mrs. Easter very well really. And Michael didn’t need to see me crying now.
When I opened the fridge looking for drinks, I found a six pack of Mexican beer, and put one at each setting. Michael had thought of everything.
“Were you a Boy Scout, by chance?”
“What?” He looked over his shoulder at me, smiling. “No, why?”
“You’ve got everything all set here. The salad, the enchiladas, beer. Very prepared.”
“It’s called being a single dad,” he said, no bitterness in his voice. “Since I fucked up everything else about my life, I decided I was going to be good at that. Part of the gig is feeding the kid, making sure everything is ready at the right time and not forgetting things. I keep a lot of lists.”
That stopped me in my tracks, it was so honest and endearing. And I didn’t know a lot of men who would be willing to try so hard—even in Michael’s circumstances. Of course, the truth was that I just didn’t know a whole lot of men in general. But I still thought Michael might be special in this way. “I think you might be more organized than Lottie, and that’s saying something.”
“Thanks.” He put a plate in front of me and sat down with one in front of his place. “Do you always call your mom by her first name?”
“Only when pointing out her more annoying traits.”
He nodded, and I recalled that he didn’t have his parents anymore—I couldn’t remember when they’d passed, but I knew he’d been young, at least when his mom died. Guilt flooded me—he probably thought I took Lottie for granted.
“I mean, we all love her to pieces,” I said quickly.
“I know, Addison. It’s just funny, that’s all.” He smiled at me, warmth in his expression, and I relaxed a bit.
“Where’s Daniel tonight?” I asked him, realizing he’d said he had the boy every other week. Was it his week off? He’d had him on Friday.
“I asked Shelly to take him for a couple extra days. I wanted to make sure the