“Mom, you’re sure you can handle him for a week?” Dean asked for the third time, muscles straining as he hefted a suitcase into the car.
I tightened my cardigan around me and lifted my chin. “I’ve been taking care of children since before you were born,” I reminded him. “Damian and I will be just fine.”
The front door opened and Nyla stepped out onto the porch. Even at that hour, she looked like she’d stepped out of a lifestyle magazine—platinum-blond hair smooth and flawless, nails done, makeup subtle and expensive. At thirty-four she had the kind of beauty that turned heads at the grocery store and the kind of ambition that never seemed satisfied with what she already had.
She carried a sleek weekender bag in one manicured hand and a small insulated tote in the other.
“Lucinda, I prepared some special tea for you,” she said, her voice honey-sweet, thick with a concern that somehow never reached her eyes. “The chamomile blend you love so much. I made enough to last the whole week. Just add hot water to the packets I left on the counter.”
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