It had been real.

In a pleasant, sleepy haze, I tugged on some sweats, put my hair up, and wandered down to the kitchen. My mother, always an early riser, had already made a pot of coffee.

“Morning,” she said from where she sat at the kitchen table, wrapped in her robe, a Bellamy Creek Garage mug in her hand, a newspaper open in front of her.

“Morning.” I took a mug from the cupboard that said WAKE UP, TEACH KIDS, BE AWESOME on it and filled it up.

“How was dinner last night?”

“Fine.” I took the creamer from the fridge and added a little to my cup.

“Where’d you go?” She was trying to keep her tone casual, but her eyes had lit up like torches yesterday when I’d come home from the Mitchells’ house and told her Cole and I were going out for dinner. I’d tried to downplay it, even while my heart had done its best to ram right through my rib cage, but I could tell I’d set her wheels spinning.

“DiFiore’s,” I answered.

She glanced over at me, her eyes assessing me above the lenses of her reading glasses. “Fancy.”

“We were in the mood for Italian, that’s all.” I sipped my coffee. “It was very casual, just like I said it would be.”

“So, not a date?”

“Not a date.” Just dinner, drinks, and phone sex.

My mother returned her attention to the newspaper, picking up her mug. “See anyone you knew?”

“Nope.”

“How was the food?”

“Good.”

“Did Cole pay for dinner?” She didn’t even look at me, as if she wasn’t desperate for my answer. As if it wouldn’t, in her mind, tell her absolutely everything she needed to know.

“Yes, he did.”

“So it was a date, then.” Her tone was smug.

I sighed. “No, Mom. It wasn’t. I told you last night—Cole doesn’t date.”

She glanced at the ceiling, and I knew what was coming. She did that when she spoke to my late father. “You hear that, Hank? She says it wasn’t a date.” Then she looked at me again. “In our day, you see, we called it a date when a gentleman took a lady out for dinner.” She cocked her head, pretending to be confused. “What does your generation call it?”

I took another sip and set my cup on the counter. “We call it being friends,” I said, pulling my pie crusts and a brick of cream cheese from the refrigerator. “The end. I think I’m going to make the carrot cupcakes with brown butter icing too.”

My attempt to change the subject failed. “Don’t be so closed-minded, Cheyenne.” My mother got up from her chair to refill her mug from the pot. “You two could be just right for each other. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Cole might come with a little bit of baggage, but who doesn’t?”

“I’m not worried about his baggage, Mom.” I grabbed the bowl from beneath the aqua blue KitchenAid stand mixer, a luxury purchase of mine that pretty much summed up why I struggled to pay off my credit cards every month. The red one had been on sale, but I didn’t want the red one. I wanted the aqua blue.

“Then what are you worried about?”

“I’m not worried about anything,” I said, annoyed that she was ruining my good mood. I grabbed the whisk attachment from a drawer and shut it angrily with my hip.

“Then I don’t understand why you’re not even giving him a chance.”

Inhaling and exhaling, I felt my nostrils flare as I turned to face her. Maybe the stark truth would shut her up. “If he wanted a chance with me, Mom, I’d give it to him. He doesn’t.”

“Nonsense,” she said, shooing the idea from the air between us like it was a fly. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“Because he’s not interested in a relationship.”

“Why not?”

“He’s a single dad who works twelve-hour days, and every minute of his spare time is for his daughter. She’s his number one priority.” I went over to the fridge and took out the butter and eggs. “He just wants to be friends, and I’m okay with that, so you’ll have to be okay with that too.”

She sighed heavily. “I know he’s a single father. But he’s still a man.”

“Drop it, Mom.” I went to the pantry and took out a can of pumpkin.

“And you’re sure you gave him all the right signals?”

“I said drop it.”

“Well, I’m just wondering if maybe he doesn’t know you’re interested. Your romantic history suggests that successful flirtation might not be in your skill set.”

I had to laugh as I started unwrapping the dough. “And what would your idea of successful flirtation be? Bat my lashes above my handheld fan? Swoon on my fainting couch? Drop my hanky and see if he picks it up?”

My mother clucked her tongue. “Go on and make fun of my old-fashioned ideas. All I’m saying is that sometimes it takes a little extra effort to get someone to see you differently.”

“We see each other just fine, Mom.” I gave her a pointed look over one shoulder. “So I don’t want any nonsense today. Are we clear?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she sniffed, looking away from me and sipping her coffee.

“Yes, you do. And I am being one hundred percent serious about this. Do not make things uncomfortable for me or for Cole. No meddling allowed.”

She faked a hurt expression. “How could you even think it of me?”

“Because meddling is your favorite sport.”

“It is not! Perhaps I do occasionally get involved when I can see things so much clearer from my side of the fence, but that’s not the same thing as meddling.”

“That is exactly the same thing.” I pulled a rolling pin from a kitchen drawer.

“Well, I wouldn’t have to do it if I could trust my kids to run their lives as well as I can,” she huffed, setting her empty mug in the sink and breezing past me. “I’m going up to get dressed. And since you’re so busy down here, why don’t you let me choose an outfit for you today?”

“No. I am perfectly capable of dressing myself, thank you.”

“Fine.” She gave me one final harrumph before leaving the room. Five seconds later, she poked her head back in again. “But no jeans.”

“Mom!” I brandished the rolling pin like I might whack her with it.

“You say no meddling, I say no jeans!” she yelled, disappearing from view once more.

Alone again, I took a deep breath, set down my rolling pin, and took out my phone.

Me: Is it too early for whiskey in my coffee?

Blair: LOL probably. What’s up?

Me: Come over a little early if you can. I have a story for you.

Blair: Does it have a happy ending?

That made me laugh. Actually, yes, I typed. It has two.

“Wait a minute. You did what?” Blair, looking shocked beyond belief, sank onto my bed.

“I accidentally sexted him after we had dinner last night,” I said, putting on my second gold earring and checking my reflection in the mirror. In the glass, I saw Blair shake her head.

“I don’t understand how that happens.”