The bass line from Henry's music thrums in my chest as I pull into the garage and switch off the Benz. I've told him he's going to wreck his hearing if he keeps cranking the volume that high on his stereo. Not to mention the noise complaints from the neighbors. They're at least the decent sort who will call or knock on the door before getting the police involved, but everyone has their limit. Given how loud Henry's music is, I'm surprised my phone hasn't been inundated with calls. Did I remember to turn the ringer up after the spontaneous date with Robin? I hadn't silenced it completely in case Henry needed something, but I'm sure it was nestled in my coat pocket when I left the restaurant.

My fingers pat down my front and sides in a frantic crawl until I feel the hard rectangle of my phone wedged deep in my left pocket, trapped below the wide strap of the seatbelt. Oh, good. It didn't get knocked loose when Robin and I were kissing by the bench. Or walking through the city park. Or making out against the door of his truck.

Regina, what did you do?

I let my head thud against the headrest, lift my wrist to check the time on my watch. Nearly 11:30pm. Any minute now Mrs. Lucas will start ringing my number, complaining about the music or that we left our trash can out on the curb too long last Thursday, and I'll have to remind her that her granddaughter, Ruby, tried to break into my house thinking it was hers last weekend. Almost got herself shot on the back patio because I thought she was Sidney violating the protection order again, too.

I don't want to deal with nosy neighbors right now, not with the pleasant haze of my date still lingering, a centering swirl curled in my chest like a lazy cat napping in a pool of sunlight.

But Henry's music really is too loud for this hour.

Eleven thirty is later than I said I'd be home when I left for this blind date, thinking it would be a nice dinner with a little bit of conversation and wine and then home by nine. I'd called Henry when my plans changed, and he'd said he'd be fine on his own for a little longer, encouraged me to go have fun.

And in truth, I did have fun. Maybe a little too much fun, I think as I unlock the front door. It's been a long time since those pleasant, fluttery feelings deigned to make themselves known. I may have behaved unseemingly for the mother of a fifteen-year-old, but I'm finding it difficult to care.

All the lights are out downstairs. I drop my purse in my office, flip through the mail on my desk, checking to see if my delinquent client, Schaeffer, Blanchard & Associates, sent in his payment yet (no, no he has not, damn him, which means I get to start small claims court proceedings on a law firm of all things on Monday, fantastic), and then slip off my heels.

All I want right now is my pajamas and a glass of water. In that order.

I scoop up the to-go box with Henry's dessert and head upstairs. His room is the first door on the right. Dim, yellow light illuminates a strip of carpet in front of the threshold. The current song ends, and as I'm raising my hand to knock, a high-pitched giggle slips into the hallway.

Hold up, now.

I said, I said Grace could not come over, and that statement was not reneged when I stayed later than planned. Screw knocking.

"Henry Daniel Mills!"

"Mom!"

Oh, God.

A blur of hands, clothes, and feet squirm on the bed as I jam the power button on his computer speakers with my thumb. They get five seconds to collect themselves as I thunk the black to-go box down on his desk, fist propped on my hip, lips pressed together as I attempt to get a handle on my temper.

The first thing I notice when I raise my head is that they're both still wearing their shoes, which eases a small measure of relief into my gut. Not that that means anything, but I'll take what I can get, considering I just walked in on Grace pinning Henry to the bed with his hand up her shirt. Or at least I think that's what I saw.

"What did I say when you asked if Grace could come over?"

"No," Henry mumbles, hands folded between his knees.

"And at any point did I indicate that decision had changed?"

"No, ma'am."

"Explain yourself, then."

He looks up, red-faced and contrite until he focuses somewhere along my jawline. "Mom, what's that?" Henry asks, eyes narrowing as he stares at me.

Oh, God. Robin didn't.

"What's what?" I say, dread lancing through my gut even as I hike an eyebrow, attempting imperious and aloof even as realization blooms across Henry's face.

Robin said he wouldn't. Specifically.

"I shall attempt to leave you unmarked, milady," he murmurs, his breath hot against the slick trail he's kissed along the column of my neck, "But I make no promises if you keep making that enchanting noise when I kiss you."

"What noise?"

Well. Maybe not specifically. Damn.

Henry taps his own neck with two fingers, behind his ear and then further along his jaw, a smug little grin creeping across his face as I lift my hand to mirror him. Which is stupid because it's not as though I can confirm the existence of the red welt (welts, plural, he tapped twice) with my fingertips.

I have a vague recollection of how this happened.

He chuckles as he drags his teeth over my pulse and then sucks, hard, and damn him, he may have a point. I can't remember the last time a man drew a sound like this from my lips, this aching, high pitched little gasp rising like steam from a too hot shower, and then he shifts his attentions further down, and the sound billows into a deeper, throatier moan as he—

Ok, a not so vague, very specific recollection of how and when it happened, but now is not the time.

Grace, for her part, is still sitting on the edge of Henry's bed, one arm folded tight across her stomach, shirt slightly askew. She chews on her thumbnail and glances from Henry to me, looking as though I might at any moment grow horns and devour her, and that mollifies me somewhat.

Not enough to let them (or Robin, damn him) off the hook, though.

"Grace, does your father know where you are?"

"No, ma'am," she says, her voice quiet, but steady. Despite my frustration with the two of them, I do like her. She's terrified of me, but she doesn't back down from anyone. "His flight home was delayed, and I told him I was at Ava's when he called from San Diego. I was supposed to see if they would let me stay the night."

This is news. Last time we spoke, Jefferson hadn't mentioned he was going to start traveling again. Grace's father and I have a… storied history with each other, the gory details of which remain carefully locked away from our children. It was a shock to find ourselves face to face at third grade orientation seven years ago, but we've managed to create a healthy friendship from the dregs of our past, a necessity as Henry and Grace quickly became attached at the hip that year. Oh, God, poor word choice considering what I've just interrupted.

"Who's staying with you while he's gone?"

"The neighbors, but they've gone. Papa was supposed to be home hours ago, and they had a reservation in the mountains for the weekend."

Of course.

"Did he say when he'd be home?"

"No, ma'am. He was trying to get a stand by seat on another flight about two hours ago, but I don't know if he did or not."

Fuck. Even if he got on a flight right after he hung up the phone with her, he's still several hours away. Grace's parents are divorced. Her mother lives in Australia, has for nearly a decade now after she and Jefferson split, and as far as I know there's no other family that lives within a hundred miles of us. I can't exactly call Ava's parents and invite her over. Which leaves me only one option. That I do not, do not like.

"Henry, go get a fresh set of linens from the closet and make up a bed for Grace on the couch. Then you're to come straight back to your room, and I don't want to see you outside of it until breakfast, after which you'll return to it for the rest of the weekend."

"What? You're going to ground me for doing the same thing you did on your date?"

Oh, he'd have better not have done what I did on my date.

When they ask me on the witness stand why I killed Robin Locksley, I'll be sure to describe this exchange in exacting, embarrassing detail, right down to the angry flush pinking both Henry's and my cheeks as we square off in the middle of his bedroom.

"You're being grounded for your insubordination after I said Grace couldn't come over. Should I tack on an additional day for the attitude as well?"

At this he looks down, mumbles, No, ma'am, as he leaves the room to do as I bade him, and leaves me alone in the room with his... girlfriend?

Why me? Why tonight?

"Come on. We're about the same size. You can borrow some sweats to sleep in."

She nods and follows me out of Henry's room, glancing over the banister as we walk down the hallway to my room, trying to catch a glimpse of my son as he stuffs pink flowered sheets between the cushions of our brown leather couch in the living room. I can hear him muttering to himself as he works, just like his father used to, and it triggers both a surge of affection and annoyance. He gets more like Daniel every day. That particular habit drove me batty on more than one occasion.

I flick on the light in my bedroom and march straight to the dresser housing my casual clothes. Grace hovers at the doorway, rocking back and forth on her heels, trying to look around the room without appearing to do so. "You can come in," I say, pulling a well worn pair of gray sweatpants and an old Georgetown t-shirt from the second drawer. "You know I don't bite."

"Much," Grace says, and then claps her hand over her mouth as I whip around to face her. "Oh, Ms. Mills, I'm so sorry. It just slipped out."

Must not laugh. Must not laugh at the impertinent teenager. Must not laugh at the impertinent teenager for having a sense of humor far too close to my own for my own good.

She's right, of course. She's been in my house as much as Henry's been in Jefferson's over the last seven years, has seen my temper on a few occasions, and I'm sure she's heard the stories bandied around town about my business practices.

And then there's the glaring evidentiary support shining like a beacon on my neck.

I can't let the comment pass unacknowledged, but I'm not going to yell at her for speaking the truth. I settle for a raised eyebrow and throw her a brief smirk before beckoning her further into the room. "Go try these on, please." I motion her to my ensuite, and when she closes the door behind her, I flop onto the bed and fling my arm over my eyes.

I should have come home. I shouldn't have stayed for dinner, definitely should have said no to the walk in the park with the dark corners and the cover of night. Hickeys and busting my son and his girlfriend aside, though, I can't find it within me to regret what happened. It's been a very good night.

The bathroom door opens a few minutes later, and I scramble upright, hoping my recollection hasn't left me looking as breathy and disheveled as I feel. Grace stands in the doorway, clutching her own clothes to her chest in a neat, folded pile with her shoes on top. "They fit," she says. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. You get to explain all this to your father tomorrow."

And I'm going to have a long, serious discussion with my son as well.

She nods, looking down at her socked feet. "We didn't really do anything, you know."

Oh, I think we differ on what anything means. But I won't walk down that path. Not right now. Not when I have to call Jefferson to tell him my son was caught feeling up his daughter. In bed. While I was out on a date for the first time since we—

"Ms. Mills?"

I sigh, push off the bed with a fist on either side of my legs. "It never starts with something, Grace. It always starts as nothing, and then you're in over your head before you realize you were going under."

We head downstairs, passing Henry's closed door without comment, and as soon as Grace is settled on the sofa, I snag my glass of water and lock up the house, arming the security system before retreating to my own room.

God, what a day.

And it's not over yet.

I thumb through my contacts list as I slip out of my date attire and into my last set of clean pajamas. Laundry, then, tomorrow. Maybe I'll have Henry do it. As punishment. For disobeying me. Not because he was making out with his girlfriend. In his bed. While I was out.

Right.

I crawl into bed, pulling the covers up to my shoulders, and for a few moments I consider allowing myself to drift off to sleep. But no, I can't do that. I'm the adult here. And even if Jefferson is still in the air, he's going to get home eventually and find his daughter missing. He may be a lot of things, but a lackadaisical parent isn't one of them.

Sighing, I initiate the call and wedge the phone between my ear and the pillow. As predicted, his number rings straight to voicemail.

You've reached Jefferson Realms Realty. Press one to hear our normal business hours or two to leave a message.

"Jefferson, it's Regina. I have something of yours sleeping on my couch tonight. Everyone's fine, but we need to talk. You can pick her up tomorrow morning after breakfast. Nine a.m. sharp. See you then."

This was not the worst thing to come home to, I suppose, rolling onto my back and tapping the locked phone screen with my thumbnails.

Clickity-click, clickity-click.

The house could have been on fire. Henry could have thrown a boozy, hazy party. Ruby could have broken in again.

Clickity-click, clickity-click.

Hell.

I flip through my contacts list and pull up Robin's entry. It's late. Too late for a call, but maybe not a text. Post-first date rules be damned. He gave me two hickeys after promising not to mark me.

I hope you're quite satisfied with yourself.

He starts typing back almost immediately. I'm nearly always quite satisfied with myself. Character flaw.

I snort. Of course he is. I snap a quick picture of my neck. The marks aren't as bad as I feared, but they are incredibly obvious. My son, I type, putting asterisks around 'son' for emphasis, saw these on my neck when I got home.

This time there's a longer pause. I flounce back onto my side, tugging the covers up to my shoulder. Tomorrow is going to be a long day, and it's just occurred to me I have no idea if I have enough food to feed three people for breakfast in the morning. I groan into my pillow and set my alarm for a half hour earlier just in case.

Two texts arrive back to back. I suppose you weren't jesting when you said you bruise easily, and then, How can I make it up to you?

I'll think of something, I say, adding a winky face at the end. Good night.

As upset as I am at… everyone, I do want to see Robin again. Soon, if possible. Maybe next weekend. No, wait, my parents will be in town Saturday. I can't inflict a pre or post-parental reunion on him this early. Weekend after next, then?

Just stop. Go to sleep. Deal with Jefferson and Henry and Grace tomorrow, file the paperwork for Schaeffer, Blanchard, & Associates on Monday, and then on Tuesday, during lunch, you can dither about the man. Good plan.

I click off the lamp on my nightstand, smiling a little to myself as the pleasant haze, the one curled in my chest like a lazy cat, creeps back in, and makes itself comfortable once more.