More Than a Little Spark

A car crash. A cowboy. And a moody tween. That’s how my happily-ever-after starts.

An adorable cowboy literally carries me to safety after my car flips, and that’s when I feel it. The spark. Until meeting him, I always thought the spark was just figurative. Nope. Real tingles.
He’s friendly and attentive but cautious, and I start to think he isn’t interested. Then I get the scoop. Carson recently adopted his nephew and is learning to be a dad. To a preteen.
That only makes me like Carson more. I make that clear, and we start dating. Taking it slow, we date in secret for a while. And the little spark turns into more.
When it’s clear this isn’t a passing infatuation for either of us, he introduces me to Fred.
And the kid doesn’t like me.
How do I get him to understand that I don’t want to divide their little family? I just want to become part of it.
Is it even possible to get a tween boy to change his mind? I hope so. My happily-ever-after depends on it.

Since taking custody of my nephew, I can count the times on one hand that I’ve gone out on a Saturday night. I don’t regret adopting Fred, not in the least. But gosh, this year has been a steep learning curve. For both of us.
I think all the single-digit years in a kid’s life are just training parents for the double-digit years, and I missed out on all the training.
And that poor kid had it rough before coming to live with me.
Moving added an extra layer of chaos, but that decision is one I’ll never regret. Stargazer Springs Ranch offered both a job and a place to live, but the best part is that Fred found a best friend. He and Mason hit it off instantly, and Mason’s parents, Kent and Poppy, are the reason I’m dressed in a Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned down to my navel and driving to a costume party. I don’t have a fancy red sports car, but I’m rocking a fabulous mustache. Hopefully, this is enough for people to recognize who I’m supposed to be. The gut hanging over my belt doesn’t help. I don’t look anything like Thomas Magnum. Maybe I should’ve ordered a life-size Higgins cut-out to take with me to the party.
Weeks ago, when Dallas invited us all to Rose’s party, Kent and Poppy offered to keep Fred for a sleepover. And that’s the day I started growing my ’stache. The finishing touch on my costume.
I may look ridiculous, but isn’t that sort of the point of a costume party? I’m never going to get oohs and aahs, but I can get laughs.
As I shift into the left lane to pass a Civic on the right, a muscle car zooms up beside me and tries threading the needle. I tap the brakes, knowing he won’t have enough room.
But that doesn’t stop him, and he makes contact with the left rear corner of the Civic, then continues down the road as if nothing happened.
I slam on my brakes as the Civic spins, and when a tire gets off the pavement into the dirt, the car starts flipping.
It’s like a scene straight out of a movie. As the event plays out in slow motion, fireworks of panic explode in my head.
Stuff like this is why I have a dash cam.
I skid to a stop on the side of the road and race back to the car that’s now upside down in a ditch.
Bracing for a sight that’ll give me nightmares, I drop into the dirt to check on the driver.
A woman, who is dressed as Daphne from Scooby Doo, blinks, her face and body covered in powder from the deployed airbags. Making jokes about Danger-prone Daphne would be in very poor taste, so I keep those thoughts to myself. She’s alive. That’s better than the alternative.