Summer Love: The Best Mistake / Impulse

“She’s a mother,” Coop said under his breath.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind coming home to her for milk and cookies. See you at the sweatshop.”

“Sure.” Coop stood where he was, frowning at the quiet street. Mothers weren’t supposed to look like that, he thought again. They were supposed to look… motherly. Safe. Comfortable. He blew out a breath, willed away the knot in his stomach.

She wasn’thismother, he reminded himself.

***

By midnight, Zoe’s feet were screaming. Her back ached, and her arms felt as though she’d been hauling boulders rather than drink trays. She’d deflected six propositions, two of them good-hearted enough to amuse, one of them insulting enough to earn the gentleman in question a bruised instep, courtesy of one of her stiletto heels. The others had been the usual and easily ignored.

It went with the territory, and it didn’t bother her overmuch.

The lounge earned its name from the shadowy effect of neon and all the dim corners. The decor was fifties tacky, and the waitresses were dolled up like old-fashioned mindless floozies to match.

But the tips were excellent, and the clientele, for the most part, harmless.

“Two house wines, white, a Black Russian and a coffee, light.” After calling out her order to the bartender, Zoe took a moment to roll her shoulders.

She hoped Beth had gotten Keenan to bed without any fuss. He’d been cranky all day—which meant he was nearly over his sniffles. He’d put up quite a fuss that morning, Zoe remembered, when she’d nixed the idea of him going to school.

Didn’t get that from me, she thought. She’d never fussed about not going to school. Now, at twenty-five, she deeply regretted letting her education slide. If she’d applied herself, tried for college, she could have developed a skill, had a career.

Instead, she had a high school diploma she’d barely earned, and was qualified for little more than serving drinks to men whose eyes tried to crawl down her cleavage.

But she wasn’t one for regrets. She’d done what she’d done, and she had the greatest prize of all. Keenan. In a couple of years, she figured, she’d have saved enough that she could turn in her bustier and take a night course. Once she had a few business courses under her belt, she could open her own flower shop. And she wouldn’t have to leave Keenan with sitters at night.

She served her drinks, took an order from another table and thanked God her break was coming up in five minutes.

When she saw Coop walk in, her first thought was Keenan. But the sick alarm passed almost as quickly as it had come. Coop was relaxed, obviously scoping the place out. When his eyes met hers, he nodded easily and made his way through the scattered tables.

“I thought I’d stop in for a drink.”

“This is the place for it. Do you want to sit at the bar, or do you want a table?”

“A table. Got a minute?”

“At quarter after I’ve got fifteen of them. Why?”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

“Okay. What can I get you?”

“Coffee, black.”

“Coffee, black. Have a seat.”

He watched her head toward the bar and tried not to dwell on how attractive she looked walking away. He hadn’t come in because he wanted a drink, but because she seemed like a nice woman in a tight skirt—spot, he corrected. A tight spot.

Get hold of yourself, Coop, he warned himself. He knew better than to let a pair of long legs cloud his judgment. He’d only come in to ask a few questions, get the full story. That was what he did, and he was good at it. Just as he was good at dissecting a game, any game, and finding those small triumphs and small mistakes that influenced the outcome.

“We’ve been busy tonight.” Zoe set two coffees on the table before sliding onto a chair across from Coop. She let out a long, heartfelt sigh, then smiled. “This is the first time I’ve been off my feet in four hours.”

“I thought you worked in a flower shop.”

“I do, three days a week.” She slid her cramped feet out of her shoes. “Around Mother’s Day, Christmas, Easter—you know, the big flower days, I can squeeze in more.” She sipped the coffee she’d loaded with sugar and let it pump into her system. “It’s just a small shop, and Fred—that’s the owner—only keeps on a couple of part-timers. That way he doesn’t have to pay any of the bennies, like hospitalization, sick leave.”

“That’s lousy.”