Their Secret Son

“Number 126. Will you help me look for it?”

“Okay.” Bobby eagerly climbed from the car and began to scan the wrought-iron numbers on the front porches. “That one is 112. And there’s 113.”

They strode along the concrete walk that lined a freshly mowed carpet of grass. Kristin caught the salty scent of the ocean breeze, as she scanned the verdant grounds of the complex. Playa del Sol had been built in a Spanish style and landscaped with enough palms, tropical plants and flowers to give it a Mexican Riviera aura.

“There it is!” Bobby pointed to a unit with a red-flowered hibiscus growing near the door. “I’m going to ring the bell.”

A wave of anticipation washed over Kristin, in spite of her efforts to forget what Joe had once meant to her, and she wiped her hands upon the sides of the pale yellow linen dress she wore.

Joe opened the door, a broad grin aimed at her son. Or rather, their son. “Hey, Bobby.”

The boy beamed. “Hey, Joe.”

When the firefighter cast his gaze on her, something zapped between them. She wasn’t entirely sure what, but it shot a wave of excitement coursing through her veins, causing her heart to go topsy-turvy and her senses to reel. How could he still do that to her, after all these years?

After all the heartbreak, all the tears?

Kristin stood on the front porch, like an awkward adolescent on a first date. But this wasn’t a date. Not at all. And she hated the idea that it felt even remotely like one, for more reasons than one.

She was over Joe Davenport. And she was engaged to another man. An exceptional man who would make a wonderful husband and father.

Hoping her nervousness didn’t show, she mustered a smile. “Hi.”

“Good morning, Kristin.” His voice had grown deeper with age. Huskier. More able to strum upon her senses than it had in the past.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Are we too early?”

“Not at all.” He opened the door, allowing her and Bobby to enter. “Come on in.”

Her son zipped right inside, eager to be in the fireman’s home, while Kristin moved slowly. She noted the hardwood entry, the Berber carpet, the beige sectional against the east wall, the glass-top coffee table, where a TV remote and a Sports Illustrated rested.