Hidden Shadows (The Shadow Series Book 1) (8 page)

At this rate, they could just breeze on by the door, leaving with little but a wave for Sensei Ben.

She should’ve known better.

Mid-interrogation her precious son spotted Ben and ran straight for the door and into the nuisance’s arms.

Ben picked the boy up with an ease Jenna had not had for some time and Dawson let out a joyful giggle. The moment was a time stopper, and Jenna watched the man and her boy as she would an old reel of film that had slugged to a pause, ticking by in millisecond by millisecond frames.

She often worried about Dawson and the lack of a father figure in his life. Since Keith left emotionally while Dawson was still in the womb, and physically mere weeks after his birth, father and newborn son had never really had bonding time. Worse, Jenna had come to fear anything truly meaningful still hadn’t formed between them.

While there were certainly all sorts of circumstances in life that forced people to miss births or first steps, smiles, babbles and words, her ex-husband had
chosen
to be away for those moments. Had chosen instead to bond with another woman, start a whole new family.

Like so many things concerning Keith, it was a frustrating and disappointing mystery.

In this moment though, Dawson lacked little in happiness as he beamed, laughed, and shrieked with delight in a man’s arms. Bennett Aston’s arms.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a grin that big on Dawson’s face. Or, if since meeting Ben, she'd ever seen him smile so genuinely. It was nice to watch.

“MA-MA!” Dawson’s screech shattered her slow reel, brought her back to reality as he swept toward her like an airplane in flight.

“Ma’am, would you like this sack of potatoes carried to your car?” Ben asked in a serious voice.

“I not potatoes!”

“What do you think you are?” Ben grunted, shifted the weight. “A bag of feathers?”

“No, not feathers,” Dawson giggled every word.

“Whether you’re feathers or potatoes,” Jenna smiled, “we have to go get your sister and head home. Supper’s waiting. Ready, big boy?”

She held out her arms and Ben winked over Dawson’s head as he transferred the heap to Jenna. Like so many other things about this man, that too turned out to be unnerving.

She fumbled a smile reminiscent of a shy third grader—she’d kick herself for that later—as she set Dawson on his feet.

“Is Mr. Ben coming?”

“Coming where, honey?”

“To supper?”

And lesson learned. Never expect someone who’s less than three feet tall and believes they speak fluent Chewbacca to be your barrier to an awkward situation.

“No, baby. Ben has his own house to go to.”

She smiled sweetly but saw his frown of disappointment and the fit coming right after it. Apparently, Ben did too.

“Hey now, buddy,” he said, bending to Dawson’s level. “I’d love to come sometime, but not tonight. Your Mom’s not prepared for guests. And you know how women are.” He poked Dawson. "Things have to be perfect to invite somebody over.”

Dawson rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it.”

Jenna and Ben burst into laughter. Because they were laughing, Dawson began to howl too.

While her son may not have a knack for subtlety, he could certainly lighten a mood. It felt good to laugh there in that small circle, and in that moment, she realized she didn’t do it enough. Too many tasks, too many places to be and things to do had her sometimes overlooking the simplest pleasures.

Like laughing with her son. Or watching a grown man wipe his eyes from the humor that her child created.

“Well, since you know what I mean, Dawson,” Ben allowed, “you understand why your Mom can’t have me over tonight.”

“Do you like peanut butter and strawberry jelly?”

“One of my favorites.”

“Someday Mom can get ready and you can come over for that. Okay?”

Ben rose to meet Jenna’s eyes. “What do you say, Ms. Gregor? Whip me up a PB and S sometime?” He grinned. "I’ve had a formal invite.”

“Yeah, a formal invite,” Dawson interjected.

Resituating Dawson’s small Star Wars backpack on her shoulder, Jenna began to steer him to the door. “Maybe sometime. We’ll talk about it at home, okay? Jacy’s waiting on us now. Let’s move.”

Ben pushed open the door for them, held it as Dawson darted out and sprinted down the hall, calling out, “Bye, Mr. Ben!”

“Bye, buddy. See you soon for that sandwich.” He caught Jenna’s arm as she turned, smiled when she whipped her head around with a startled stare. And suddenly, just like at work, he was close to her, very close. His body between her and the open door, his eyes looking down on her, his voice deep and amused. “And don’t forget to remind your Mom.”

“I’m sure he won’t,” she smiled politely, shrugged to remove her arm from his warm hold. Then, without thinking, “You seem to have made quite the impression.”

“He’s a great kid, Jenna.”

“I like to think so, but it’s nice to hear it from someone else sometime, you know? It validates what you’re doing, or hope you're doing.”

And where did that come from?

When he only nodded slightly with an understanding smile, she darted her eyes to the floor, mumbled, “Well, thanks for . . . everything.”

Clinging tightly to her Star Wars strap, she and Jabba the Hut followed her son down the hall.

As Jacy climbed in the back seat and Jenna fought with the buckles of Dawson’s car seat, a side door of the building opened and Jenna saw Ben exit.

Watching him walk in the dark, his big strides eating up the ground with easy confidence, she began to wonder—could she give a little?

Could she at least entertain his obvious attraction and admit to hers? Could she have a fling?

Should
she have a fling?

Aside from all the grandpas at church, Ben was the first man under sixty to pay such avid attention to her son.

The kids’ Grandpa (and Grandma) G had basically disappeared with Keith, and though Jenna’s father was present, his love was strained. Hard to see and even harder to feel.

Jenna knew all too well what that was like.

Ironically, over time, Keith’s love had become like her father’s. Allegedly there, but with no evidence. An empty sentiment, an actionless word.

She believed the theory about abusive cycles—they either repeated themselves or were broken by a conscious effort. She’d fallen into the trap herself by marrying Keith, but she was determined to discontinue that emotional stalemate for her children.

So wasn’t it good to bring good people into her children’s lives? Ones that made them laugh, were interested enough to ask questions, hear the answers.

No, she didn’t know a considerable amount of things about Ben Aston yet. Except that he obviously meant a lot to Dawson. And that he cared, in a very evident way, about those he loved.

She started the car as Ben headed to the far corner of lot and considered; from what she knew, he was already light years better than every man she’d been set up with in the last three years, was ridiculously handsome, a hard worker, devoted to his family, and made her child laugh.

She also needed a fling. According to Robin, at least.

Flings were fun. No strings attached, no hope for the future, no expectations. Just unadulterated enjoyment.

She could use a dose of that.

“One minute, guys,” she said to the kids, flinging open the car door and hopping out.

“Uh, Ben?” she called after the disappearing shadow.

The shadow stopped, turned. He definitely heard her. Oh no, did she really want to do this?

No time to back out now, he was coming her way.

Dusting off the rusty sex appeal she hoped she still possessed, she walked the few steps to meet him.

She watched him carefully, made sure his eyes were on her in the dim light before she smiled skillfully. “So you never really told me what box you checked.”

His brows creased for a moment, then understanding flashed and his lips curved up slowly. “I believe I did. But I’ll refresh your memory if you need me to.”

She waited.

“I’m unattached, single.”

“Oh, I remember that part, Ben. I was referring to the orientation box.”

His eyes rounded to saucers as he bent his head closer to hers. “The what box?”

“Your orientation. Straight, gay, in between? It usually falls into one of those three.”

“Well aren’t you clever?” He chuckled. “And here I was thinking I was about to get lucky, being called over for that peanut butter sandwich.”

“The answer to the question could affect whether or not you get the sandwich.”

“You have something against one or the other, Miz Gregor?” he drawled.

“No, but usually when I invite guests over who are out of elementary, I like to find benefit in it too.” She patted him on the shoulder and left her hand there momentarily before trailing down his arm to briefly entwine her fingers with his. "I’ll be in touch about that sandwich.”

Satisfied with leaving him rattled this time, she popped open the car door, hopped in, and drove away with Dawson in the backseat madly waving his farewell.

FIVE

Desiree was tired of waiting. Tired of craving revenge, justice, and the downfall of
Doctor
Jenna Gregor. She was worlds away from that Florida hotel room—in miles and years—but her mind, her heart, her intentions, were unchanged. And she was tired of waiting.

She’d been given her first thrill, years ago, when she hunted down and found the woman who ruined her life. In the same blow, she’d been hit with her first real obstacle, discovering that the doc was living it up with a respected position in a nice clinic and going home every night to a hunk of a man and a cute kid—screw her.

Sure, Desiree had a hand in the Gregor divorce back then—basically orchestrated it—but that excitement was fading. Plus, the superwoman was beginning to look like she was finally bouncing back.

Though Desiree could admit the victory of the divorce had lasted longer than she’d expected—it went so much better than planned!—she needed a triumph again. In a bad way. The necessity for another high of sabotage made her feel like an addict thirsting for the next fix.

She wasn’t an addict though. No, not to any substance. She was too clever for drugs, too cunning for alcohol. She couldn’t risk losing herself or her senses. She had to be on alert always, watching, waiting, planning.

She had an end goal after all. She couldn’t risk missing the right moment for execution.

The note had been fun. A little taunting, a little scare. But definitely not enough. Not enough of a bang. Jenna Gregor needed to realize she was threatened. Needed to know there was danger.

Frightened prey were more fun to hunt. The kill was sweeter that way, more exhilarating.

A scream blared from the T.V., had Desiree stepping into the small living room and glancing at the screen.

Horror movie, great. She hated those things.

All that blood always gave her flashbacks, bad memories. Made her think of Tommy the last day she’d seen him. Poor chap. So much blood.

Ben and his father had talked about how he was cutting it close, weather wise, with this house and two others he had lined up for the following week, but with business booming like it’d been, anytime sooner just wasn’t an option.

Standing and surveying the rows of houses dotting the generous lots, he estimated he and his team had worked on at least fifteen homes in the new subdivision.

The projection for future work didn’t look like it’d be slowing, either, as the little town of Spring Hill had seen exponential growth after a group of contractors teamed up and started building. Ben could’ve kicked himself for not being one of them. No telling how much profit they’d made off their initial investment. He was surprised he hadn’t thought of it first. Being a small town guy, you’d think he would’ve seen how many people would be attracted to a place like this.

To Ben, there was no better life than walking out on your front porch and seeing land—instead of buildings, lights, and worst of all, traffic—on the horizon.

Cue his beloved log cabin and its location.

About ten years ago he’d picked the spot while taking a long drive after a bad break-up. The rolling green hills and pastures with horses galloping over them, their manes billowing in the wind, cows grazing on the healthy grass, and a weather-beaten red barn spaced about every ten miles gave a man a kind of peace that couldn't be found in the busy city.

No congestion, crowds, or ex-girlfriends in sight, had him staking his claim to an empty lot in mostly unheard of, Leiper’s Fork. A year later, he’d helped build his cabin, wrap-around porch, wood burning stove, and all.

It was small, and even more so since Heidi moved in, but whenever he needed space, he could walk out the door and it slammed him in the face. The rich green of the grass, the sweet smell of honeysuckle, the pines and oaks swaying in the breeze—that was what Ben called space.