Page 3 of Parentmoon

“Dallas.” I nod once and turn away from him, fighting the urge to watch him walk away.

I’ve already seen one man walk out of my life. I don’t need to fixate on my son’s future father-in-law doing the same thing.

Then again, Dallas isn’t even in my life. He’ll become Michael’s relative, not mine. And I’m not going to witness him hitting on some random woman by the bar. Or maybe he’ll hold out for our waitress to finish her shift.

Whatever his mission is, I wipe Dallas Cole from my thoughts.

But my eyes have a will of their own and catch a quick glimpse of Dallas’s backside as he weaves through the tables toward the exit.

He has a very fine backside, but a nice ass does not make for a good man.

Sometimes, it just makes him an ass.

And when I glance toward the bar one more time, the woman who’d been lingering near it is gone as well.

Chapter 1

Eleven Months Later

“Jo.” My name is a soft caress wrapped up in a rough Southern drawl.

“Dallas?” From my seat on a raised patio, I’ve been watching him exit a boat-taxi, walk the length of the dock extended into the ocean, and approach this house. Even from a distance, his body is distinctive.

Dallas Cole is too good-looking at the ripe age of forty something. His eyes are a piercing blue that rival the late afternoon sky, although I can’t see them behind the dark aviator sunglasses perched on his nose. He is also insufferable and has the most annoying Southern twang.

And by annoying, I mean, panty-melting, clit-pinching, pulse between your thighs, drawl.

Plus, he’s the father of my son’s fiancée. Or should I say former bride-to-be?

I still don’t know what happened. Worse even, I don’t know why Dallas is here.

“What are you doing here?” he questions, collapsing into the wooden deck chair beside me.

The seats almost take you to the ground, cupping your backside and tilting your body back at a forty-five-degree angle. Not anticipating how low the chair sat, I nearly tumbled out of it with my first attempt to sit and burst into laughter. My first laugh in days. The raised cement patio where we sit extends the length of the A-frame cottage of sorts at our back. This place is part of a beautiful resort in Belize. The rustle of palm trees and a stunning ocean view are my only neighbors. At least, they were until Dallas showed up.

I don’t know how I got here.

One minute I had plans for a vacation in Arizona, and the next Michael asked me to trade places with him. My twenty-seven-year-old son was set to marry the woman of his dreams and vacation on this island after their wedding ceremony.

Only, days before the happy occasion, the wedding was called off.

I don’t know what happened. Personally, I’m heartbroken for both Michael and Keli, and frustrated that I don’t have any answers. I can only imagine how my son and once future daughter-in-law feel. Michael refused to talk. Instead, he begged me to take his honeymoon ticket to this peaceful place, while he took my airline ticket to Arizona.

Due to some fluky transfer window with the airlines and a discounted flight scheduled to leave immediately, I’m here a few days before the actual wedding ceremony should have occurred.

In the multitude of bridal magazines and online articles I’d read, the bride can go through an emotional slump after the ceremony. After the glitter and glitz of a golden celebration, the wedding blues can settle in. While I don’t recall this form of post-stress after my own wedding more than twenty-seven years ago, I anticipated a letdown after the current festivities and took it upon myself to organize a little honeymoon of my own in Arizona to wind down after the wedding.

I dubbed my future time away a parentmoon.

But now, as mother of the groom, I suddenly find the father of the bride casually sitting beside me on my vacation.

“What are you doing here?” I counter.

Dallas rolls his head against the hard back of the chair and tugs down his glasses to the tip of his nose, eyeing me over the wire frames. “I own the place.”

“You what?”

Awkwardly, I sit up straighter, conscious of the tank top and cut-off jean shorts I’ve chosen to wear. Stomach a little fuller over the years. Arms a lot flabbier than they used to be. While Mr. Too-Good-Looking has biceps on display under a short-sleeved linen shirt, unbuttoned a few too many buttons at his chest, and exposing a patch of chrome and ink colored hair against firm pecs.