Charming the Firefighter. Beth Andrews

      Andrew could, and often did, ignore her. Her insights and opinions, her attempts at civil conversation and questions about his thoughts, his feelings.

      But he never ignored his phone.

      A moment later, the door opened and her son—her sweaty, disheveled son, the child who used to look up to her with such adoration in his eyes—scowled down at her. Yes, down at her because, thanks to a growth spurt last year, he now towered over her by a good six inches.

      He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “What?”

      Her mouth tightened. Her head pounded. Then again, dealing with her son usually left her with a headache, pondering where she’d gone wrong.

      “Take out your earbuds,” she said slowly, over-enunciating each word in case he’d suddenly learned how to read lips.

      His frown deepened. “What?” he shouted.

      She jabbed her fingers at her own ears, mimed pulling something out.

      With an eye roll, he pulled the earbud from his left ear. Half his attention was better than nothing at this point. “What do you want?”

      Her entire body stiffened. She wouldn’t lose her cool. She would not lose her—

      Oh, who was she kidding?

      “The first thing I want,” she said in a mom voice guaranteed to let him know he was messing with no ordinary mortal, “is for you to speak to me civilly and politely.”

      Another eye roll.

      How on earth had her well-behaved, sweet boy turned into this...this...closing-in-on-six-foot, shaggy-haired, sarcastic, ill-mannered man-child?

      And what did she have to do to get the old kid back?

      “Really?” she asked, crossing her arms. “No apology?”

      He turned, walked to the weight bench in the corner, laid back, and started pumping a barbell up and down. Up and down.

      Stubbornness was just one of the new, and many, unattractive traits he’d acquired and perfected since puberty hit him full force.

      She stepped into his room and wrinkled her nose at the scents of stale sweat, dirty socks and only God knew what else. Maybe it was a good thing he kept the door shut all the time.

      Holding her breath, she crossed to the window, stepping over a pile of clothes she knew darn well had been clean and neatly folded two hours ago. Mainly because she was the one who’d washed, dried and folded them.

      She opened the window. “I guess you’ve had enough of your phone privileges then.”

      Privileges he’d just gotten back after she’d shut off his account for the past two weeks thanks to his smart mouth.

      Some days she felt more like a parole officer than a mother.

      He set the weights on the support bar with a clang, his face flushed, either from exertion or irritation. Heaven forbid he actually be embarrassed or ashamed of his behavior.

      “Sorry,” he muttered, already moving on to bicep curls, his elbow resting on his knee as he pumped the weight with slow, deliberate movements.

      She smiled. A small, forgiving smile, though his apology was halfhearted at best. Forgive and forget—her life motto.

      “It’s okay,” she said, but he kept his head lowered, eyebrows drawn together in concentration, lips moving as he counted his repetitions.

      He’d changed, and more than his personality. The raging hormones she blamed for his bad attitude had also broadened his shoulders, deepened his voice. His face, a blending of her features and those of his father’s, had lost its roundness. His hair was darker—nearer in shade to her own than the sandy-blond he’d had as a grade-schooler—and badly in need of a trim. He was a tall, darkly handsome, soon-to-be-cut young man.

      God save her when the teenage girls started coming around in earnest.

      She picked up three clean shirts and carried them to his closet. “Why don’t you jump in the shower?” she asked, shaking the wrinkles out of the first shirt before placing it on a hanger. “I’m about to put the burgers on the grill so we can eat in half an hour.”

      “I’m not hungry,” Andrew said, sweat sliding from his hairline down the side of his forehead.

      Yuck.

      She hung the shirt, then slid a hanger into the next one. “You’re always hungry.”

      It was the main reason her grocery bill surpassed the gas, electric and cable bills combined.

      With a shrug she had no idea how to take, he switched hands and started doing reps on that side. “I’m eating at Luke’s.”

      She blinked. Blinked again. Kept the smile on her face. “Why would you eat at Luke’s?”

      “He invited me over. His family’s having a picnic.”

      “So are we. I made all your favorites. Taco dip and potato salad.” Both with light versions of sour cream and mayonnaise instead of nonfat. For him. Because he claimed the nonfat tasted like crap, which wasn’t even true. “And brownie sundaes for dessert. With whipped cream. I even got bacon for the burgers.”

      He snorted. “Turkey bacon. Tastes like shit,” he said under his breath.

      But loud enough that she could hear.

      She pretended otherwise. “Real bacon.” She’d read it was better to use that instead of turkey bacon, which often had more additives.

      He eyed her suspiciously, his blue eyes—his father’s eyes—narrowed. “Real burgers? From a cow?”

      Full-fat beef burgers? Did he have any idea how bad all that grease was for him? “Turkey burgers. They taste just as good.”

      “No. They don’t.” He switched sides again, didn’t bother looking at her. “Like I said, I’ll eat at Luke’s.”

      “But I want you to eat here. With me.”

      “No, thanks.”

      She squeezed the shirt in her hand. She’d made a trip into Pittsburgh yesterday to get all the ingredients she needed to have a special picnic for the two of them. A trip that had taken all afternoon, which meant she’d had to stay up late to finish the laundry and housework, not to mention that profit-and-loss statement for work. She’d spent the morning cooking and baking, wanting nothing more than to enjoy a leisurely, pleasant Labor Day. With her son.

      And all he had to say to her was no, thanks?

      She didn’t think so.

      “You’re eating here,” she told him, her tone brooking no argument—though that never stopped him before.