Single mom Jordan Glastetter doesn't know how she'd survive without her best friend, Abram Tomko. He's the father her son never knew and he's the rock she's always leaned on. When Abram's father suffers a heart attack, it's Abram's turn to depend on Jordan, finally seeing her as the woman she's become and not the little girl he grew up with. Will they risk their friendship for a chance at love?
Abram’s breath is warm on my neck and he’s closed the space between us. I turn around to face him, only for us to be less than a couple inches away from each other. Looking up into his chocolatey brown eyes, my heart races. Get it together, Jordan, this is only Abram Tomko. Your best friend. Your husband’s best friend.
“I’ll handle it, thanks for letting me know.” I try to sound confident, like the fearless, single mom that I pretend to be.
Abram frowns, his hand moving to my waist and I feel his rough fingers on my bare skin between my peach tank top and low rise jeans. “Don’t, Jordan. Don’t act like you’re in this alone. I’m right beside you, just like I’ve always been.”
I open my mouth to speak, but Abram puts his finger to my lips. He’s right, he knows my mannerisms better than I do. Now that he’s brought it to my attention, this is typical me. When something is difficult, when I don’t want to impose on him, I push Abram away, but he knows I need him as much as R.J. does.
“Jor, for the past five years it’s just been me, you, and R.J. We’re a family, just like the other kids in his class. There’s nothing to hide, nothing to be afraid of.” I nod, he’s right. He’s our family and just like every obstacle since Robby died, Abram will stick by my side. His finger moves away from my mouth and I start to speak again when I realize he’s lowering his head toward mine. Not sure what else to do, I nuzzle my face against his neck and he lets out a sigh, blowing my hair. His mouth finds my forehead where he plants a kiss. Without thinking, I brush my lips across his neck, my pulse racing erratically. One of his hands squeezes my waist while the other fists a handful of my hair. An unfamiliar desire rips through my stomach and I lower my mouth, kissing further along his neck. Abram tilts my chin up, looking into my eyes and I suck in my breath.
Abram and I jump apart, partially as to not be caught, but more so because my five-year-old only calls me “Mommy” when something’s wrong. Abram takes a few steps toward R.J. and picks him up. “What’s wrong, buddy?”
My almost-kindergartner is frightened, his lips pressed into a straight line and the fear in his eyes lets us in on his secret. “Pop’s sick, real sick.”