Chapter Eight
In her heels, Amie carefully stepped on each tread of the stairs. She figured back when this older house was built, they didn’t have many big-boned women who wore four-inch-high shoes. Maybe she could go shoeless. At least she wasn’t pregnant. Been there, done that.
Before leaving her guest bedroom, she’d called Maria and told her what happened at the house and to stay with her mother until everything settled. Last thing she wanted was for Maria to walk into some ambush and get hurt.
Then the thought of her son being hurt sent fear straight to her heart. She’d talked to Grandpa Running Wind and he told her to not worry about her “cub.” He would make sure the child was well taken care of. He told her to take care of herself first, then she would be ready to take care of her son. She hoped he was right.
The scent of cooking steak wafted in from the other room. She realized how hungry she was. With everything going on in Vegas, they hadn’t stopped to eat. Not too long from now, the sun would be setting.
“Amie? That you?” Frank’s mom said.
How could the woman possibly know she was standing on the stairs? Frank’s mom popped her head around the corner. “I forgot to mention to be careful of the sixth step. Occasionally it gets loose. When it creaks like it does now, usually means I need to take a hammer to it again.”
Amie looked back at the steps. She hadn’t even noticed the sound, she was so focused on not falling. But that explained how Frank’s mom knew she was coming down.
“Come on in.” The woman gestured with a tilt of her head toward the kitchen. “I’m making something to eat. Bet you all haven’t had anything in a while with all your carrying on.”
Amie followed her into the kitchen. The room was . . . cute. In a fifties kind of way. Frank’s mom blended in perfectly. Her dark hair was pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck. The housedress she wore was gray with small white flowers. She wore no makeup or jewelry. Yet she looked timeless.
“François mentioned you know each other from college. What did you major in?” Oh, she hadn’t thought about what she’d tell his mom. Apparently, Frank hadn’t told her everything, so she wouldn’t, either. She’d gotten good at selective fact-giving—not outright lying, but carefully choosing what to divulge—over the past several years after college. If she could fool Uncle Giuseppe, Frank’s mom would be a cinch.
“We did know each other. I saw him around campus and we had some mutual friends, too. My degree was in art and artistic design. He was much more into math and science.”
“Oh, how nice,” his mom said. “There’s something to be said about opposites attracting.”
Hold the phone. If she didn’t know better, that sounded like Frank’s mom wouldn’t mind if they hooked up. Not happening. Amie thought back to his sculpted body and the muscular valleys she used to run her tongue along. Her body shivered.
His mom turned to her with a wide grin. “I hope you like steak. That’s all I have right now. Need to go to the butcher’s tomorrow to pick up more red meat for the rest of this week. Maybe you could come with me.”
At least she’d be able to get out of the house, Amie thought. “That would be great, Mrs. Dubois.”
“Oh, no, no, no. That just won’t do,” the woman said. “I insist you call me ‘Mom’ just like François does. If you must, Mom Dubois would be fine also.”
“Thank you, Mom.” Maybe this place wasn’t going to be all that bad. It was Frank’s family, who he seldom talked about. She hadn’t talked about hers, either, but she was hiding the fact that she was related to the Mafia. What could a perfect guy like François have to hide?
Frank came through the kitchen door in different clothes. Now he sported a tight white T-shirt and sweatshorts that hung low on his hips. Damn, the man could be wrapped in a rug and look sexy.
“Uh, I need to change. Be right back.” With that he was gone. His mom watched him go with a gleam in her eye. What did that mean?
“Amie,” Mom said, “would you mind pulling out three dinner plates and setting them on the table, please?”
She jumped from her chair. Finally, something she could do besides sitting with her thumb stuck up her ass. “Absolutely.” She opened a cabinet to the largest dinner plates she had ever seen. They were more like serving dishes. She could fit several veggie burgers and salads on one.
After setting the table with plates, silverware, kick-ass steak knives, and cups, she wondered if anything needed to come from the fridge. The only thing cooking was steak. No beans or corn, no lettuce salad or fruit. She opened the fridge to see what was there and stared in disbelief. The only thing besides milk—skim at that—was meat: chicken, pork, ground beef, a couple steaks, bacon, sausages, sliced deli meats—a package of Colby jack cheese; woo-hoo—shoulder roast, and brisket.
No wonder Frank only ate meat when at school. That’s all his mom cooked. Well, she’d always wondered if the Atkins diet worked. She was about to find out.