Feisty Red (Three Chicks Brewery #2) - Stacey Kennedy Page 0,16

As she watched a freshly bathed Mason jump into his single bed with the quilt made of patchwork in his room with pictures of baseball players on the walls, the ground felt unstable beneath her feet.

When Mason settled his damp hair against the pillow, he asked, “Mommy, how do you know Sully?”

“His name is Sullivan,” she said, pulling the blankets up to Mason’s chest.

“Yeah, Sullian.”

“It’s Sulli-v-an, sweetie,” Clara said with a laugh. “You’re missing the ‘v,’ and he’s mommy’s old friend.”

“So cool.” Mason watched Clara with his sweet, curious eyes, his brow slightly furrowed. “Does he make you sad?”

“Sad?” she asked, aghast. “Gosh, no. Why would you think that?”

Mason didn’t skip a beat. “Because you looked sad when we saw him.”

Kids really missed nothing. Ever. Though this was her problem to worry about, not his. She leaned down and pressed a quick kiss on his nose. “Mommy is fine, sweetie. You don’t need to worry about anything. Okay?”

“Okay,” Mason said. Then his eyes suddenly lightened. “Maybe one day he can play baseball with me.”

“Maybe one day.” Clara’s heart took a direct hit at the images that appeared in her mind. At the happiness she could imagine and had once wished so damn hard for. Over the years, she’d wanted to find Mason a father, a good man to help raise him. But that wasn’t real life, and no one had ever measured up. She tucked the sides of the blanket in tightly around Mason as she said, “Snug as a bug in a rug.” She pressed another kiss to his forehead. “Love you, buddy.”

“Love you, Mama.”

With her heart lodged in her throat, she flicked off the light on her way out, leaving the door ajar to allow in a little light to chase the monsters away. Since hiding in her room and pretending this wasn’t happening wasn’t feasible, she headed down the hallway lined with photographs of the happy childhood she’d had with her sisters in spite of losing their parents when they were young. That loss had taught Clara the importance of a life well loved and that happiness and love could be born out of the darkest of places. She missed her parents, but her grandparents’ love had healed their absence. When she finally reached the top of the staircase, she stopped at the sound of Sullivan’s laughter as Amelia and Maisie entertained him. And that low rumble brushed over her senses, taking her back.

The crowd’s loud cheering vibrated against the metal baseball bleachers as Clara clapped at the final strikeout that Sullivan delivered to win the game. Fans cheered his name. The players swarmed Sullivan, the elation of a winning season overwhelming them. But then, Sullivan emerged from the players, his gaze not for them, but for Clara. He took off his baseball hat and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his arm as he jogged her way. She hopped off the bleachers and met him at the short chain-link fence.

“Congratulations,” she said then gave him a quick kiss.

He smiled when she backed away. “It’s you, you know.”

“What’s me?” she asked, sliding her arms around his sweaty neck.

“The reason I’m so damn good at this.” He winked. “You’re my good-luck charm.”

“Oh, please,” she countered with a snort. “This was all you. Your talent. Your skill.”

The crowd still cheered as he pressed a soft kiss on her cheek then said in her ear, “Why do you think I work so hard? I’m trying to impress you.” When he leaned away and she caught his amused look, he asked, “Is it working?”

“Hmmm,” she said, pretending to ponder. “It’s safe to say that tonight you’re going way past third base and all the way home.”

His head tipped back, and he barked a laugh. A laugh that made everything better.

But then the laughter was gone, and in its place came a hard reality. Seven years, Clara had wondered and questioned if the hard choices she made to keep Mason from Sullivan were the right ones. She supposed it was time to find out if she’d been right. She headed down the staircase, finding Sullivan with her sisters in the living room that consisted of a wood-burning fireplace and a big bay window that brought in bright, natural light during the day.

From his spot on the floral sofa, he lifted an eyebrow. “All tucked in?”

She nodded. “He’ll be out for the night.” She noted the two shot glasses and a bottle of whiskey on the rectangular coffee table.

Amelia left the accent