nodded.
“Did you fall asleep helping Dad with his books?” he asked, grasping at straws.
Maureen shared a furtive glance with his father, then joined them at the kitchen table.
“No,” she answered with the curl of a smile.
“What about the girls? Where are Mia and Mya?” he continued.
Maureen shared another coy look with his father. “They had a sleepover with my folks.”
“So, you had a sleepover with my dad?” he concluded, not about to be named super sleuth of the year.
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” his father teased, then lifted Maureen’s hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss to her knuckles.
Jordan’s gaze bounced between the pair. “Am I awake?”
Maureen chuckled. “Yes, honey. Of course, you’re awake.”
“But it looks like…” he stammered.
“Like your dad got some?” his father asked with a wide grin.
“Denny!” Maureen said with a playful swat to his arm.
“When? Why? How?” Jordan uttered, still oatmeal-brained, and finding it difficult to form a coherent sentence.
His dad and Maureen gazed at each other like teenagers in love.
His father cleared his throat. “When? Last night. Why? Because Maureen is one of the kindest, smartest, most beautiful women I’ve ever met. And how?” He scratched his chin, then shared a knowing glance with Maureen. “It started in the kitchen, or was it in the car?”
Maureen mimicked his father and scratched her chin dramatically. “I’d say the car was foreplay, and the kitchen was where things started to heat up—right here on the kitchen table for round one.”
Round One!
Jordan skidded his chair back from the location of parental hanky-panky.
“I don’t want to know how many rounds!” he blurted.
“Three,” his father whispered.
Jordan’s jaw hit the floor.
“Dad! Stop! And how did you two even get together?”
“At your beautiful champagne engagement breakfast,” Maureen answered.
His father nodded. “We got to talking, and then Maureen started helping me with my bookkeeping.”
The two lovebirds stared at each other. If this were some middle-aged love story cartoon, this would be the scene where their eyes would transform into hearts.
“And one thing led to another,” Maureen added sweetly.
Christ on a Cracker!
“You’re my dad’s girlfriend?” he asked, slow as molasses on the uptake.
Maureen resurrected that theatrical chin scratch move. “Maybe I’m your dad’s booty call. It’s like the thing you kids do with the swipe right,” Maureen joked.
Jordan knew his mouth was hanging open, but he could not get it to close. Maureen was like a mother to him, and she’d just correctly dropped app hookup lingo.
“I don’t know what I’d call it, other than two of the best weeks of my life,” his father said, again with the Rico Suave kiss to Maureen’s hand.
“Are you going to keep seeing each other?” Jordan asked, regaining brain function.
His dad and Maureen went back to puppy-dog-eyes mode.
“I sure hope so,” his father said.
“Me too,” Maureen answered, then slid her gaze from his father and zeroed in on him.
“I think that’s enough talk about your dad and me. We need to have a chat with you,” Maureen said, watching him closely.
“Me?” he asked.
She nodded, then glanced at the floor. “Hold on. What is that?”
Jordan looked at the spot where he’d been filming the jump rope tutorial.
“It’s dryer lint. I’ll toss it in the trash,” his father offered.
Shit!
Jordan shot to his feet and swiped the laundry remnant. “It’s mine.”
Maureen eyed him skeptically. “That’s your dryer lint?”
He stroked the scented lint ball with his thumb. “Georgie’s and mine. I took it from our place.”
Maureen narrowed her gaze. “You won’t talk to Georgie, but you’ll keep her dryer lint? And don’t try to tell me I’m not right. Remember, I do the books for both of you. I know you two are avoiding each other,” Maureen chided.
His father grimaced. “What are you doing with Georgie’s dryer lint, son? Not to mention, that’s a pretty creepy thing to be carrying around.”
“It smells like her,” he said, staring at the bluish-gray lemon verbena-scented mass.
He glanced up to find Maureen and his dad with their heads cocked to the side, watching him as if he belonged in a padded room.
He waved off their concern. “It’s not meant to be creepy. It’s just…”
Just what?
The one thing he’d kept with him since he’d left?
The reminder of her scent and everything he longed for?
A memento of when he’d lost his shit—one of many times he’d lost his shit—when he’d learned she’d packed the damn dryer sheets and not the dryer lint?
“It’s lemon verbena-scented,” he offered as if that would somehow reduce the creeper factor.
However, from his father and Maureen’s