Page 78 of It's Always Sonny

My phone buzzes with a call, and I immediately regret checking it.

It’s from my mother.

I send it to voicemail, and a moment later, I see the transcript of her message.

Parker, are you screening my calls? No matter. We’re coming for a visit next week. I’ve emailed you the itinerary. We’ve booked the B&B at that farm you work on. Call me back.

Shock and offense fight for center stage in my thoughts.

Offense wins.

That farm I work on? Has she listened to a single word I’ve said about my job? Does she think I’m picking crops? And if I were, why would that be so bad? I want to scream. Why does she have to come out? What great faux pas have I committed now that she needs to come criticize me to my face instead of on the phone?

I look back down at the transcript, and I catch what I missed before. She said we.

My father’s coming, too?

Apprehension twists my gut into knots as I stuff my phone back in my pocket. Sonny gets up and walks over, and it’s like a flicker of light in the darkness. I can do nothing but marvel at how stunning he is. He’s wearing a thick Waves hoodie and joggers, and he somehow manages to make limping drip with swagger.

But he’s not cocky. Sonny’s a lot of things, but he doesn’t elevate himself over anyone. He’s a man of the people.

A stupidly hot man.

And he was mine once.

I’m reminded of a thousand times I admired him walking, and the familiarity clashes in my brain with the newness now. I’ve seen him so much lately, but I haven’t had the chance to study him, to memorize the new angles and curves of his face. I haven’t had the chance to run my hand over the back of his short hair and feel the bristles against my skin. I haven’t felt his five o’clock shadow against my cheek. He was always toned, but the broadness of his back and shoulders is a mystery to me.

And … I’m staring. No, not just staring, I’m practically drooling.

I’m such an idiot.

I want him as badly as ever. More, even. I’ve been looking at myself as unlovable. I’ve seen myself, not as an adorable bouncing goat, but as the goat that was born without the right muscles working, the one the other goats shy away from.

I’ve tried to hide, tried to fake, but Linda was right: I haven’t fooled him. And after listening to Ash, I wonder if I’ve fooled anyone.

Except myself.

“You look deep in thought,” he says when he approaches. He leans against the table where Ash was moments ago, and he stands so close that if either of us takes a deep breath, our arms will touch.

I’m wearing a coat big enough to hibernate in, but I know to my core that every one of my nerves will still respond.

“I guess I am,” I say.

He bumps his arm into mine, and I have to push aside my mental conversation with my imaginary therapist so I can hear what he’s saying.

“I’m getting myself some hot chocolate,” he says. “It’s cold.”

“You’re wearing a hoodie like your absurd nephews.”

“I run hot.”

“You just said you’re cold.”

“Maybe I’m hoping you’ll warm me up.”

I chuckle now. “Why aren’t you wearing a coat? Does any part of you care about self-preservation?”

“It’s thirty-eight degrees. Until you’ve played a game at Lambeau Field in January, you don’t know cold.”