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She nods. “I imagine it is.”
I stare at her. “You know?”
“I know my daughter.”
Fair enough.
She folds the towel and sets it on the counter. “And I've known you since you were a boy who thought he had to ask permission to take a second helping at dinner.”
I look down at my coffee.
“Mrs. B—”
“Let me finish, sweetheart.”
I close my mouth.
“Laney's had a soft spot for you for a long time. I used to think it was just a little girl's crush.” Her expression softens. “But she's not a little girl anymore. And what she feels for you is a lot more than a crush.”
I swallow. “I know.”
“Do you?”
I meet her eyes. She isn't accusing me of anything. Somehow, that makes it harder.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I do.”
She studies me for a moment. “Then I need to ask you something. And I want you to answer me honestly.”
“Okay.”
“Do you feel the same way?”
I look toward the back door. Beyond the glass, I can make out the porch swing and the shape of a woman bundled beneath a quilt.
My woman.
Even if I haven't had the courage to call her that.
“More than I know what to do with,” I admit.
Mrs. B lets out a slow breath.
“Well. That answers that.”
I almost laugh. “You're taking this pretty well.”
“Should I be throwing something?”
“Declan might.”
“Declan throws things when the television remote stops working.”
I laugh despite myself.
She smiles, then reaches for my hand. “Hayes, I want you to listen to me.”
I look at her.
