Commitment by Margaret Ethridge

into a smug smirk. The urge to kiss it off of her made his foot twitch with impatience. He let his mother ramble on a bit, knowing he couldn’t squeeze a word in without using a machete to cut her off. Maggie plucked the Sunday comics from her lap and folded them neatly. She set them aside, slipped from the bed, and reached into the closet. He followed her every move with interest. She belted a long, fuzzy robe securely at her waist and he snapped from his stupor.
    “No. Leave the ladder alone,” he ordered. Running his hand over his face, he shot Maggie an apologetic glance. “I’ll be there in about an hour or so.” Thick terry cloth swirled around slender ankles when Maggie swept from the room with Fred hot on her heels. Tom pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, wishing he could block out the sound of his mother’s voice and ignore the guilt snaking through his gut. “Sorry, Ma. Be there as soon as I can,” he said then ended the call.
    Tossing the sheet back, he scooped his pants and underwear from the floor and started to pull them on. Dread pooled in his belly. The abrupt end to their conversation would give Katie Sullivan plenty of ammo to unleash on him when he showed up.
    He grabbed his shirt and gave it a sharp shake before shoving his arms into the sleeves. Guilt clogged his throat. His mother was old. And alone. And yes, a giant pain in his ass, but she was his mother. If he didn’t show up to do the job, she was just stubborn enough to try to wrestle the ladder from her tiny garage. Then she’d fall, break a hip, and he’d never hear the end of it. Tom had learned at a young age that accommodation was the best form of self-defense.
    The weight of his guilt and disappointment bogged him down. Moving in slow motion, he picked up his shoes and socks, slung his suit jacket over his arm, and padded from the bedroom in search of Maggie.
    He found her in the kitchen. Her fat cat wound his way between her ankles. Flame red hair tumbled down her back. Wavy curls tangled and tousled by his hands spilled onto celery-colored terrycloth. He held his breath, allowing himself the luxury of just a few extra moments. An odd, unidentifiable ache gnawed at him.
    A soft click echoed in the empty apartment. A can of cat food clattered to the counter. Maggie held an unwieldy-looking can opener aloft and grinned down at the cat. “See? I’m getting faster with it,” she assured her feline friend.
    Fred growled a meow and sat beside his food bowl, curling his tail around his haunches and staring up at her with barely contained exasperation.
    Tom stifled a chuckle. Then he squelched a surge of lust when she bent to scrape the contents of the can into the dish. He cleared his throat. “Think that’ll hold him?”
    She straightened, smoothing her palm over the front of her robe. “For a few minutes,” she replied, flashing a sheepish smile. Maggie turned to face him and the ache he’d felt a moment before morphed into a full-fledged pang of regret.
    “I’m sorry.” He stepped into the room and tossed his jacket over the back of a kitchen chair. Dropping into the seat, he released a huff of breath and looked up at her. “I have to go.”
    “I figured.”
    He shook out one of his socks and bent at his waist. “My mother can be a little high maintenance.” He yanked the sock over his toes.
    “I know. I’ve met her.”
    Startled, he jerked his head up to find her watching him with a small smile. She had met his mother. This woman he’d violated in a half dozen ways in the past fourteen hours had met his mother at least a dozen times. Tom blinked when he realized she was the only woman he’d ever been with who had the dubious honor. He busied himself with the other sock. “That’s right.”
    “She’s a piece of work,” she said with a laugh.
    “Putting it mildly.”
    “And you’re her fair-haired boy.”
    Tom sneered as he pulled the second sock into place. He tugged at the hem of his pants